


The Boar's Bride

by JojotheRadPenguin



Category: Crimson Peak (2015), Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter (Hopkins Movies), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crimson Peak (2015) Fusion, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Animal Symbolism, Bluebeard retelling - Freeform, Dark Character, Dark Fairy Tale Elements, Dark Romance, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Fairy Tale Elements, Fairy Tale Retellings, Forbidden Love, Gothic, Gothic Romance, Horror, Inspired by Crimson Peak (2015), Mason is still the worst, Original Character(s), Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, Psychological Horror, Psychological Trauma, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Sorry if its cringe at first!!!, Suspense, gothic horror
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:40:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 26,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28084074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JojotheRadPenguin/pseuds/JojotheRadPenguin
Summary: Edith Watts's passion is painting wintry landscapes and wildlife thriving in the American wilderness. But after being commissioned by the charming, albeit annoying and secretive, Mason Verger to paint his portrait, she is swept away to his luxurious manor with a wonderous garden and view of the Appalachian Mountains, and is seduced into becoming his bride.What seems like a perfect, fairytale marriage begins to fall apart, however, after an encounter with (in)famous psychiatrist Dr. Hannibal Lecter that leaves Mason severely disfigured and paralyzed. His desire for an heir becomes more vehement and his newfound bloodlust makes him more dangerous.With this fairytale illusion destroyed and monsters (as well as dark secrets) being revealed, Edith is done trying to be the loving wife she swore to be and, with the assistance of an old friend, plots Mason's downfall.No longer shall Edith Verger be the Boar's Bride.
Relationships: Alana Bloom/Margot Verger, Mason Verger/Original Female Character(s), Original Female Character/Original Male Character, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18





	1. Prologue

Love.

It is something that so many are desperate to feel, to possess as their very own. It is something artists and authors for a millennium have yearned to capture within a painting’s strokes, an aria’s notes, a sonnet’s rhymes, and a statue’s imitation of life.

But what is love other than a synonym for deception? A concept created only to manipulate the heart and transform its owner into nothing more than a lusting marionette? Why are so many young girls and boys so desperate to chase it if it leaves nothing but destruction, pain, and scars in its wake?

Such questions are the only thing that emerges through the haze blinding Edith’s mind, thickening the already murky fog swimming within her cranium as she staggers with her stiff, lopsided gait down the very center of the deserted road.

Rain falls all around her, echoing off the thick sea of pines that threaten to swallow the road—and Edith—into their seemingly never-ending wilderness and plastering her hair across her forehead in tendrils of dark gold. Moonlight shines weakly—desperately—through the wettened clouds and reflects off the pines as if they were hundreds of pairs of wolfish eyes glaring at Edith hungrily from the darkness.

Cradled against her chest, the heated bundle shuddered with a tiny, muffled snort and Edith gives the tightly swaddled creature a gentle pat, an action that it practically mindless. A light pink snout pokes out from the black folds of cloth, but it’s soon shielded by Edith’s palm as she coos, “There, there, my child… There, there.”

_Edith…_

A single, lone sound slices through the falling rain and is echoed by the sharp stamp of a cloven hoof. The croaking, garbled, gurgling growl forces Edith to come to an abrupt stop, her breath catching in her throat just as suddenly.

Once again, it speaks, _Edith…_

In between every syllable, this voice wheezes and gurgles, chocking on some sort of unholy bile that mixes with the congregating rain puddles.

This voice, this audible horror that makes every inch of Edith’s being shudder, coaxes her, almost as though it is the hand of a lover, to glance over her shoulder. Silently, behind trembling lips, she prays that the road behind her is as empty as the one ahead of her. However, a great, mirthless mass of black fills its entirety with two orbs of crimson staring at her with nothing but pure hatred frothing within their depths.

_Edith… How could you leave me?_


	2. One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PART I: THE BOAR

Six years earlier…

An artist has every right to feel pride regarding their work, no matter how the average person interprets their work’s message, no matter if it’s a composition that’s seen as a nostalgic masterpiece rivaling that of Renaissance-era murals or a contemporary, abstract, minimalist sculpture meant to invoke a desire for surrealism. After all, much like beauty or comedy, how one feels regarding art is subjective and varies from person to person.

For me, my artistic desires have always favored paintings of nature, of wildlife living undisturbed within the American wilds that remain untouched by the cruel hand of man. My paintings of the Appalachian Mountains outlined by a mist made orange by the rising sun, of does guiding their young fawns through a spring meadow, or of two cardinals relying on each other for warmth while desperately grasping a snow-laden branch are what I pour my passion into.

This passion warms my breath while I’m crouching in the snow weighing heavy on the back porch with my sketchbook cradled across my knees. My gaze follows a solitary stag as he traverses across the lawn until he comes to the birdfeeders and the stray seeds littering the snow below.

The beast is beautiful—borderline ethereal—underneath the early morning sunrise. His great mane of brown turns golden beneath the haze-covered sun and illuminate antlers proudly arching over his head as if nature demanded they were to be both crown and halo. The heated mist of his breath rises from his nostrils as he laps the stray seeds from the snow and entangles itself within his antlers like vaporous snakes.

I’m enchanted, mesmerized and unable to look away.

I hurry to sketch the scene in front of me before any of it can be disturbed. My hand guiding the charcoal pencil is gentle, outlining the creature’s fur with feathery tenderness to a degree where the softness of my lines almost perfectly resemble fur. My wrist swivels in a silent elegance as it traces the mist curling around the antlers, which are drawn with an angular harshness so that they purposely resemble more of a king’s crown than deer’s antlers.

When I look back up at my subject, I’m stunned to see him staring straight at me and I release a short gasp. Thankfully, the sound doesn’t disturb the peace and we hold each other’s gaze while embraced in a fragile silence.

Mostly for my own amusement, I turn my sketchbook to allow the stag a gander at its portrait. “Very charming, if I do say so myself, your Majesty.” I breathe, a tone barely above a whisper.

Almost as if he’s interested, the stag takes a hesitant step forward with a twitch of an ear and a swipe of a pink tongue across a muzzle now decorated with birdseed.

Not daring to disturb the delicate silence, I merely smile while my breath escapes my nostrils in small puffs of hushed laughter.

Something fragile is taking place, a relationship between man and nature that’s become so rare, so fantastical, something that can only be heard of in documentaries or fairy tales. It’s a moment I want to remain frozen in time and to never be disturbed.

Such a delicate bond, however, is soon broken by the screeching halt of car tires and boots on gravel, and a terrier’s bark.

Terrified, the stag frisks away without a moment’s hesitation, silently skipping across my lawn and back into the depths of the forest beyond the cabin; no tracks are imprinted into the snow.

A sigh, weighing heavy with frustration, rushes from my nostrils, but annoyance is quickly masked with a smile as a barking bundle of ruffled brown fur barrels from around the corner.

The terrier yips and howls, tumbling up the steps to join me on the porch.

“Good morning to you, too, Toto,” I coo and allow the Norwich Terrier upon my lap where it continues to whine and wriggle with an eagerness to be pet. It only calms slightly when I finally scratch the fur behind his pointed ears.

Following the little dog, a man, very tall and very lank, stumbles around the corner, out of breath.

“Sorry about that, Edith,” Lewis Grey wheezes, his long, narrow face a light scarlet hue as he inhales more winter air. “About scaring away your subject, I mean.” He makes a vague, exasperated gesture towards the direction in which the stag disappeared back into the wilderness. “I couldn’t find a pet sitter in time to watch Toto for today, and you know I can’t trust him home alone! Last time I did, he managed to break out of his crate, and chewed holes into my work shoes!”

Fanning a dismissive hand and holding Toto close to my chest, I say, “Oh, don’t worry about it. My subject will be back sometime soon. He usually comes early in the morning if there’s extra birdseed on the ground,” I then turn my knees just enough to display the beginnings of my sketch to Lewis. “I might turn this into a painting. Its working title is _Great King of the Woods_!”

He gasps and his eyes widen. Hungrily, he steals my sketchbook from my grasp, possessing the wonderstruck look of a child in a candy store as he does so. He then smiles and taps a knuckle against the paper. “Edith, you never cease to amaze me. I think you ought to add this onto your exhibition!”

Shaking my head, I snatch the drawing back. “I don’t think people love nature as much as minimalism or abstract sculptures.” I say with a shrug and brush away the toast crumbs that fell from Lewis’s coat. Toto wriggles in my lap to capture the falling morsels with his tongue. “And I’d prefer it were a finished painting before I put it on display a _nywhere_!”

Lewis suddenly adopts a saddened expression when he protrudes his lower lip out in an exaggerated pout. “Alright, alright, if you insist,” He tilts his wrist, making a spectacle of looking at the watch decorating his boney wrist. “Speaking of which, we have two hours until the gallery opens. Gives us enough time to stop for a coffee before the museum. If you’re interested, of course!”

I smile, finally standing while maintaining my grasp on Toto and my sketchbook. “Coffee would be great.”

#

I’ve always thought that the streets of Baltimore are different than those back in London. Baltimore streets are wider, much wider, although they lack a particular historic beauty preserved in buildings found in London. Not to mention how Baltimore is considerably livelier and more clamorous. It was quiet back home in England, and I flourish in the quiet.

My family’s home—an upper-class townhouse—is tucked away in a quiet London suburb where the only sort of things that prompt commotion would be drama about a dog being let loose into a neighbor’s petunia garden. Now, I have a whole cabin to myself, tucked away within the depths of the Appalachian wilderness with no neighbors other than the trees and the birds and squirrels residing within them, and no drama besides the occasional fox stalking rabbits in my garden.

I love the quiet, and it was one of the few things of London that I miss.

Other than adjusting to the loud activity of America, I had to learn to adjust to the culture as well, and that was how Lewis had become both a friend and a resource to me.

In fact, not only is Lewis my helping hand with navigating the boisterous ways of the Americans, he’s also the reason my art is to be displayed at the Walters Art Museum! Over the course of this week, local artists are granted the opportunity to display their works on the museum’s walls, giving them a chance to meet potential commissioners, to meet new artists, and to even find new ideas for future projects.

For me, I don’t necessarily care about commissions or meeting my fellow artisans (well, save for Lewis) or searching for new art ideas. I just want to display my work because I want my work to be known. A small part of me, a small part powered only by pride, wants to participate in the exhibition just to gloat to my parents that, perhaps, escaping their smothering affection has paid off, that perhaps America has given me the sense of purpose I have craved since I was a child and that they (and our wealth) had failed to provide me. I want the satisfaction that I am right in following my love for painting rather than their pleas for me to pursue writing just as they once did.

Lewis, on the other hand, is excited about this chance at prestigious exhibition because he insists that it will give him a chance to find potential customers. From what he’s told me, the salary of an elementary art teacher is far from admirable, and that someone paying for his carvings are the only things that have helped him make ends meet.

As I can feel with the brush of his fingers against my hand as he hands me my coffee, his fingers are rough and calloused. His hands are those of a talented wood carver that’s worked tirelessly to make it to where he is now, and his carvings show these countless hours of refining his skills with chiseling, shaving, and sanding wood.

It’s almost whimsical how he’s able to sculpt and mold wood into fantastical creations such as the carving of a jackal that vaguely resembled the god Anubis or a wooden engraving of a humanoid elephant that represented the god Ganesh; I notice how almost all of his works possess a theme relating to various mythologies and religions.

My favorite piece of his is the oaken bust of a man that’s face is frozen in an eternal, contorting scream of excruciating pain as elk-like horns sprout from his temple and his nose begins to stretch into the beginnings of a furry muzzle. Despite the obvious depiction of Actaeon moments into his cursed transformation from man to stag, Lewis always sheepishly denies the connections to the myth of the hunter that had tragically fallen victim to powers Artemis and the jaws of his own hounds.

I always mention it, though more out of jest, the bust’s resemblance to the fated Greek hunter, although I often silently tell myself how the sculpture faintly resembles Lewis with its narrow face, beaky nose, and prominent brows.

“I still think you should at least consider adding color to that sketch from earlier,” Lewis continues, as we exit the little café with Toto trotting between us. The scent of cocoa and freshly brewed coffee still hangs in the air around us. Early morning traffic fills the streets and fills the surrounding atmosphere with an overwhelming, energetic aura that makes my skin itch.

“I’d much rather it be a full, complete painting first. Besides, I have a notion that there will be an overabundance of deer-themed pieces,” I rebuke with a chuckle before warming my lips with my coffee. The delicate sweetness of caramel and mocha remain upon my lips until I eagerly swipe it away with the tip of my tongue. “And I wouldn’t want to outshine your darling Actaeon bust!”

A sudden expression of pouting overtakes Lewis’s features as he scowls, “The carving is _not_ Actaeon!”

I muffle a snide giggle with another caramel-laden sip. “Mm-hm.”

Almost as if in response, Toto sneezes and gnaws at his leash.

Fortunately, the museum is only a two block walk away from the café, and I bury my nose deeper into the flannel scarf encasing my throat as another gust of a cool breeze surrounds us. I suddenly regret deciding that pantyhose and a skirt complimented my black blouse rather than dress pants.

Though it just opened, the museum is far from empty as artists rush to finalize their exhibitions and the beginnings of patrons starting to wander between the three galleries dedicated to local showings.

I follow Lewis into the first of these three galleries (which are separated into paintings, sculptures, and fiber arts), shedding my coat and slinging it into the crook of my arm while balancing my phone and coffee in my left hand. We pass by all sorts of carvings that vary in forms. Some are like Lewis’s where they depict specific creatures, people, and even pieces of furniture, while the rest are far more abstract and strive to have no definitive shape.

We come to his exhibition, which proudly displays his carvings of ‘Acteon’, ‘Anubis, and ‘Ganesh’ under several bright studio spotlights. I pause to admire these carvings, how each detail was cleaved and loved into these pieces of oak and elm and cedar by skilled, gentle hands. I smile at the thought of Lewis hard at work in his garage after an evening of grading student’s assignments in order to create such wonderous masterpieces.

“So,” Lewis muses as he finally removes his coat, steals mine away, and tucks them away with his keys behind one of his carvings. Toto sits neatly at his feet. He wears a red vest with ‘SERVICE DOG’ printed on either side. I never knew that he was a certified service dog, only that Lewis would often bring him to work so that he could bring a smile to his student’s faces. “How about we meet back here after closing? Get some Italian, maybe?”

“Ooh, Italian sounds perfect, I think! A perfect way to celebrate the first day of exhibition!” I say, and he nods and smiles (his smile is _infectious_ ) in agreement.

Before we part from each other for the day, we exchange final smiles and words of encouragement.

Excitement thrums my heart in rhythm to the slap of my ballet flats against the marble flooring as I hurry through the sculpture gallery. It’s an honor to be displaying my paintings in a museum! And it’s _the_ Walters Art Museum! I couldn’t even have something of mine displayed in my father’s writing study back home, let alone a _museum_!

Elation propels me forward, accelerating my steps to a slight trot. I struggle to maintain a professional, courteous stride. I desire to break out into a run, to sprint to my display, but that’s not what professional artisans do… right?

I exit the room of sculptures of carvings and the moment I cross the threshold, the fever burning in my chest halts and I come to an abrupt stop. My heart’s pounding is painful and my blood freezes, and I don’t even know if I’m breathing anymore or if I’m still maintaining my hold on my coffee and phone.

Standing before me, no more than twenty feet away, is a great black beast.

It’s easily the size of a large horse, perhaps even larger than the greatest of Clydesdales, and easily takes up the entire width of the hallway. The creature itself is made of pure darkness that’s darker than even its own shadow cast upon the floor and that oozes from its body in thin, wispy tendrils of death that threaten to swallow the sun and studio lights illuminating the hall.

It releases a harsh, croaking snort as it shakes itself free of more of its shadowed wisps, and only now do I see two long, dangerously curving ivory tusks protruding from its pointed snout. It the stares at me with two eyes peering from within the ghoulish mass of black. Two eyes the color of fresh blood staining a January snow.

I continue to stare at the beast—this great Boar—with my blood running ice-cold in my veins and my hands suffering from a severe tremor. _Is no one else seeing this creature, this horror? How is no one screaming and fleeing away in terror?_ My questions are answered when several people pass by without even regarding it, and the creature not even regarding them. Only I can see it, and it chooses to only see me.

Without another word, the Boar releases another snort before turning on its sharp, almost claw like, cloven hooves, into another gallery, the gallery dedicated to paintings. _My_ gallery.

Other than the obligation to enter the gallery because of my paintings, I feel another obligation to follow the Boar. Just to pursue it and see if someone else—anyone else—would see it and have the courage to subdue it or call animal control.

Until I reach the gallery’s threshold, I walk forward with a bated breath. But as soon as I duck into the gallery, my breath rushes from my lips, though with an emotion that I struggle to decipher as relief or disappointment.

The gallery is nearly empty, and the Boar is nowhere to be seen. No beast of curling shadows, no creature with the blood-red eyes and sharpened tusks. There are only fellow painters and patrons beginning to wander the gallery.

I stand there for a moment, dumbfounded. _There’s no Boar… Why did I see it, then? The creature made sound… it cast its own shadow… surely it had to have been real!_

I glance down at my coffee in hand and shake myself, shivering away the anxious cloud that has begun to surround me. “You’re just sleep deprived… and perhaps overdosing on caffeine. You’re fine.” I whisper to myself as I fix my composure. “There’s no Boar. Only art!”

_It’s just your imagination._ I reassure myself as I walk further into the gallery’s depths, still seeing no sign of the Boar.

As soon as fear had washed over me, a smile returns to my face as I come closer to my exhibit towards the gallery’s furthest corner. It’s dull, as the display light for my area is half-burnt and flickers occasionally. But I continue smiling, nonetheless. _It’s still an opportunity to display artwork!_

The revived excitement already sparking in my heart suddenly explodes and is deafening in my ears once I reach my exhibition. Someone is standing there, observing my paintings, seemingly, with great interest.

A man is looking at them, gazing at them as he leans in closer, but his focus is fixated on one painting. Nestled in between the snowy landscape of my garden possessing a single spot of orange meant to resemble a fox and a portrait of myself that also displays an obligatory autobiography is the depiction of a bunny, snow-white and dead. I remember the young rabbit that inspired this painting. It was one of my first springs living in Maryland, and a fox must have maimed it by the time I came across it on my walk, but the image was so ingrained into my mind that I had to paint it if I desired a good night’s sleep.

In death, the creature possessed such beauty and innocence that I _had_ to paint it. However, the painting fails to capture the creature’s purity as I remembered it. My painting portrayed a small creature of white painted with gentle, delicate strokes that were afraid of destroying such innocence. Flowers varying shades of blue and purple (bluebells, violets, forget-me-nots, lavender) are painted in a wreath around its body with some petals being stained by the crimson blood that pooled from the puncture wound along its throat. With how I preferred to make the beautiful macabre and the grotesque attractive, the blood is painted as though it were a stream of rubies that stained the grass of emeralds supporting the little body. Even the small trail of tears leaving the bunny’s lifeless eyes were painted like crystals that give some semblance of life.

The portrait the man has obtained a fascination with is depicting the death of purity, and how the death of purity can be beautiful in nature, as it can make way for other life to thrive in its place.

The man leans forward further towards the portrait, tousled blond hair bathing his face in shadow until I approach. He is well-dressed, wearing a finely tailored waistcoat the color of a polished pearl over a periwinkle-blue dress shirt that matches the pinstripe patterns of his trousers. A coat, the same off-white shade as his waistcoat, looks expensive with its fine tailoring and the white fur trimming its collar and cuffs, and is slung over his shoulder by a hand proudly displaying a signet ring imprinted with some sort of family crest. In my opinion, he is too finely dressed for a simple visit to a museum. Clearly flaunting wealth and power, and it creates an embittered pit in my gut at how it reminds me of my parents.

“I see you’ve taken keen interest in _Life, Death, Birth_.” I remark as I approach the man, my voice a gentle hum as to not disrupt other conversations occurring within the gallery.

Startled, he flinches and glances up towards me, but then holds my gaze for a long while, almost as though he’s shocked, perhaps even enamored; regardless, I feel as though he stares for a moment too long. His face is young and handsome with a rounded chin and gentle, almost cherubic, angles that soften his features. Bright, baby-blue eyes are hidden behind glasses supported by a slightly upturn nose, and his lips, full and pink, turn upward into a half-smile. He radiates the arrogance of a man yet to grow and maturate out of boyhood.

“Yes, yes, of course! I’m, uh,” He finally breaks the long silence between us and glances back at the painting with a hand on his hips. His eyes flicker back and forth while reading each painting’s respective plaques. Perhaps I mistook what he was so intently focused on? “The way you use colors is, uh, impressive. I especially admire the lighting done with the tears and the blood.”  
“You think so?” I breathe, eyes wide and flattered. Was this how an artist was supposed to react to positive feedback while in a professional setting? _No, no! Now you need to explain the piece, you dolt!_ “It’s, erm, based on something I came across on a nature walk last spring. Ever since then I’ve been fascinated with how the death of something so innocent—something that would devastate us humans—can actually be rather beautiful in nature, that it’s actually something wonderous that needs to be cherished and praised.”

“Ah,” The man breathes, slowly nodding, though judging by the glazed stare fixated back on my exhibition, I doubt he actually listened until he mumbles, “So the circle of life.”

Excited, I nod. “Yes, precisely!” _So, he_ was _listening!_

“Your style and how you approach your themes are things I don’t see with many other artists Miss…” He pauses to look at my biographical slate. He stares at it for almost a moment too long before returning to the conversation, “Miss Watts. And you’re from London, I see! Daughter of _the_ Timothy M. Watts, I assume?”

I wince. The one time my art is praised in a museum, it all circles back to me being known for my parents’ legacies. “Yes, yes, I am, Mr…” I extend a hand towards him and trail my voice off into a droning whisper, prompting him for a name.

“Oh, Verger. Mason Verger. My Papa was an avid fan of your father’s mysteries, especially! And my mother for your mother’s erotica, of course.” He said with another smile when he took my hand. It almost shocks me at the strength behind his grip, but his hands are soft… virgins to hard labor.

“Yes, my mother, of course…” I clear my throat. “I’m afraid I didn’t inherit their talents with writing, as you plainly see.”

“Oh, and I do! I do like these nature-y paintings and stuff! I’ve never been much of a reader,” He says in a high, nasally tone, gesturing to _Life, Death, Birth_ , the winter painting of the fox ( _Flame in the Snow_ ), and a separate painting of my cabin surrounded by the autumn trees ( _Embrace of Autumn_ ). “And did you paint this?” He then points to my biographical slate.

“Yes, I did,” It’s a small twelve-by-ten-inch canvas containing my self-portrait. It’s nothing special. Just a three-fourths portrait from the shoulders up with me in a black top. For a colorful flair of personality, I painted a dainty flower crown of daisies threaded through my cropped, pixie hair. I personally am not fond of this painting, though I’m not sure if it’s because it’s a painting of myself or it’s because my lighting is far too dull and lacks an enthusiastic pop of life. Beside the portrait is a glass sheet detailing a simple biography: where I’m from, educational background, my preference for using acrylic paints, inspirations for art, and the like.

“Ah…” Mason’s attention is fixated on the portrait, and a dimple forms in his cheek as his half-smile returns. “Do you take commissions, Miss Watts?”

A commission!

Just what an artist is always waiting for! To be paid for doing what they’re passionate about!

“I do, yes!” I glance over my shoulder. The gallery remains relatively empty (and lacking any black, red-eyed Boars), so I can talk business! Or, well, the artist’s equivalent of business. But what am I to say without seeming too eager, too greedy? “Uhm, I’m sorry, I’m just excited,” (he nods and grins, seemingly in understanding), “Uhm, what is it you are looking for in a commission, Mr. Verger?”

“In my family, it is tradition for a man to have a portrait of him painted when he turns thirty; it’s a tradition tracing back to my great-great-great grandfather. I turned thirty last month, and I’ve been struggling to find portraitists open for commission until I’ve come across your lovely little set up here,” He makes a gesture towards my exhibition. He turns to me, then, with an eager expression and his blond brows arching high above his blue eyes. He looks like a child anxiously awaiting the puppy he asked Santa Claus to bring him Christmas morning. Clearly, to me, he is also a man who has yet to ever accept the answer ‘no’ for anything. “Are you willing to paint a portrait, Miss Watts?”

“Oh, Mr. Verger, I’m not exactly the greatest at painting portraits… P-perhaps you ought to try—” I begin to point to the older gentleman two spaces to the right of me who’s whole exhibition are various, watercolor portraits of the same young woman and little girl (perhaps a former wife and daughter? A daughter and granddaughter?), but Mason quickly stops me.

“But I quite like your style!” He then leans in close, close enough for me to smell the ghost of mint and martinis upon his breath and the expensive, pine-and-sea spray cologne seeped into his waistcoat. “I find it more attractive than any other painter’s style here. Art is subjective, you see. And I’m willing to pay you whatever amount you wish!” A tone of desperation clips his words.

I’m flushed. No one has ever called my artwork ‘attractive’ before, not even Lewis, especially with a portrait painting. “Thank you, Mr. Verger. I…” _What should I say? How does an artist say they’re willing to accept commission without seeming too greedy?_ “I’m willing to paint a portrait for you!” I instantly imagine painting Mason’s figure as a stoic, poised royal that’s regality would put Elizabeth I or Louis XIV to shame!

Mason must share similar sentiments because his face brightens like a child that did, indeed, receive that puppy from Santa. “Oh, well, perfect, then!” He shrugged his coat onto his shoulders and dug into a pocket on the interior of its breast before procuring a card. When I take it, I see that it’s a business card. “My number,” he says, almost smugly, “Your little portrait biography thingies mentioned that you paint in a cabin, if I’m not mistaken? So, no studio. Just call me when you’re ready to schedule any sessions, or if you wish for plans to change, and I’ll give you my address. I have plenty of rooms I can have converted into a studio for you!”

I examine the card further, holding it closer to my face. The card is professionally printed and laminated. “Mason Verger… Verger Meat Packaging, Co…. 555-693-2593…” I murmur to myself under my breath, then look up at him with a smile. “Thank you for this opportunity, Mr. Verger,” I extend my hand out towards him, smiling. “I’m excited to begin work with you!”

“As am I, Miss Watts.” He steals my hand for a shake but surprises me when he brings my knuckles to his lips for a kiss I’ve only ever heard about in movies. His lips are soft and well-tended to… perfect lips for a lover. My heart is in my ears, and I don’t know if I’m even breathing anymore. “I hope to hear from you soon.”

With that, he tips his head in a nod and smiles as he leaves. He stuffs his hands into his coat’s pockets, directly leaving the gallery and not even bothering to regard the gallery’s other paintings. He strides a powerful, confident strut. Just by merely walking, it’s clear he exudes power, and he wants everyone to know. People must have noticed because several of the gallery’s occupants, both painter and patron, watch him as he passes with faces that are an amalgamation of shock, concern, and perhaps something else that was disgust? I’m not too sure, their expressions were somewhat warped underneath the glare the studio lights have against the white, marble tiles underneath our feet.

My heart is still painfully beating, rendering me deaf. My first commission… I bring my knuckle up to my lips, and the spot where my skin met Mason’s still burns. “From a gentleman, no less.” I whisper with an excited squeal.

I glance down at Mason’s card again. Tapping it against my coffee, I glance over my shoulder, watching him go.

Just before he steps free of the gallery, my smile falters when I can almost see the Boar’s silhouette outlined in the darkest recesses of his shadow.


	3. Two

“A commission?!” I fear that Lewis is going to choke on his tortellini upon hearing my news, and I duck my head in embarrassment when he erupts into a violent coughing fit.

Those occupying surrounding tables cast speculative glares towards us as we continue to disrupt the bistro’s amiable atmosphere filled with the tunes of an accordion and polite conversation before stiffly returning to their Italian dinners.

He coughs away whatever food remains in his throat and wheezes, “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?!”

I shrug. “I wanted it to be a surprise!” _Perhaps I should’ve planned a better time to make the announcement_

Exaggerating an expression of heart-broken offense, Lewis pouts, “Still could’ve told me earlier. Well, now come on! Please, tell me more!”

“Well! It’s a portrait commission,” I turn to dig and salvage Mason’s business card from the depths of my coat pocket. I set it down on the table with a smug expression while wriggling in my seat. “He said I’m supposed to call him so that we can set up session times. He seemed… wealthy, too. Like, almost too wealthy.”

“Too wealthy? What makes you say that?” Lewis takes the card, retrieves his reading glasses from his own pocket, and holds it up close to his face.

I shrug again. “I’m not sure. I think it was just the way he presented himself.” _Or maybe it was the Boar...?_

“Ah, fair enough.”

The expression of excitement that had illuminated Lewis’s face suddenly dissipates and he stares at me over the thick rims of his reading glasses. “You’re being commissioned by Mason Verger?” Something within his tone makes my stomach drop, but I try to retain an air of enthusiasm.

I nod eagerly. “I am, yes! I was so excited that I was tempted to call him after the museum closed.” I then notice the look of concern that crosses his dark brown eyes. “Why? Is there something wrong with that?”

“No, no, no! It’s just…” He glances around before dropping his voice to a rare whisper as he leans towards me. “It’s just that the Verger family has what most people around here call a ‘tainted history’, especially Mason and his father. Just some rumors about religious summer camps and questionable therapy, I think. It was a couple years ago, so it’s mostly just hearsay nowadays.” He must have seen the evident disheartened expression cross my face because he quickly interjects with, “Please don’t let what I say sway you, Edith! I’m still proud and excited for you! The Vergers are one of the richest families in Maryland, so I think it’s an honor hat you’re being commissioned by them—and you should be honored, too!” His hands, with his long, strong fingers, encase my own. “I just ask that you proceed with caution, okay?” Never have I heard him be so serious with his words.

 _Proceed with caution… But with how much? Mason seemed trustworthy enough to me!_ The skin where his lips brushed against my knuckle suddenly burns underneath Lewis’s touch. _He… He seemed like the perfect gentleman to me._

A soft smile returns, and he lightly cuffs my shoulder. “Hey, like I said, I’m proud! I’m excited for you, Edith!” He then raises his water glass. “I say we propose a toast.”

I mimic his action, though not with nearly as much gusto. “To what, may I ask?”

He shrugs. “Oh, many things. But for now, I say we toast to a successful first day of exhibition and to you managing to be commissioned by a Verger. So, I suppose we shall toast to you.”

My cheeks burn and I look down, but I finally raise my glass to kiss the lips of his own. “I guess I can toast to that.”

And toast to it we do.

#

Though neither of us are inebriated, the drive home is filled with a fatigued stupor that causes us to laugh at the most ridiculous of things; Toto merely snoring in the backseat of Lewis’s Mazda is enough to send us into a flurry of shrieking, howling, hyena-like cackles.

Our laughter tames, but only slightly, once we reach my cabin’s front porch and even then, we are nearly suffocated by the air of giggles that surround us.

“Well,” Lewis begins, “Same time tomorrow? For picking you up, I mean.”

“Of course! Only if we have time for coffee, again.” I pause gathering my phone and coat into my lap to cast him a brief smile. With the way the silvery beams of moonlight breaking through the darkened forest cast across his features, he begins to resemble his Acteon carving to an almost uncanny degree.

I open the car door, but he stops me by laying a hand upon my shoulder. “Remember, Edith. Proceed with caution,” his grip squeezes ever-so-slightly, “Please?” _Is that a plea—a beg—I’m hearing?_

I sigh and look back at him. “I’m sure everything will be fine, Lewis. I promise!” I return his gentle squeeze and we exchange a single, long glance before I finally step from the car. “Thank you for coffee and dinner.”

And with that, I’m left in a hushed, wintry stillness once Lewis’s tires are done crunching along the long gravel drive that dissects the surrounding forest in order to connect my cabin’s front porch to the main road. I turn to head inside before the forest even has a chance to swallow the red orbs of his taillights because, for a moment, I swear I see the Boar’s ruby eyes staring back at me from within them.

The quiet is almost deafening as I start the beginnings of a fire within the fireplace, change into a yellow nightshirt, and make a cup of cocoa (with a splash of rum, of course). And once I grow tired of the silence, I put in a DVD just for some gentle ambient noise to fall asleep to.

Finally, I’m settled on the couch, rum-enhanced cocoa on my coffee table, fire burning in its fireplace, the tale of _Bambi_ animating my TV screen, and my sketchbook, opened to _The Great King of the Woods_ sketch, propped against my bare knees. An ideal evening of comfort.

Though I feel the weight of fatigue pressing heavy into my shoulders, an eager, almost nauseating, anticipation burning within my veins prevents me from relaxing enough to fall into the tenderness of a cocoa-and-rum-induced slumber.

I try to work on my stag sketch occupying my lap, trying to plan how I am to transfer it onto canvas, what canvas size I’m to use ( _Maybe a 20x20” one?_ ), and what paints it may require ( _Definitely golds and yellows and browns!_ ). But excitement distracts me.

Mason’s card practically illuminates on the coffee table, as though it demands for me to pick it up, to call Mason and to start our sessions as soon as possible; it’s watching me, tracking my every movement, like a single, blazing eye. But upon checking the time on my phone, I decide against it as I don’t think anyone would be pleased at receiving a call at 1:45 in the morning.

Sighing, deciding that focusing on anything but Mason’s commission is impossible, I just toss my sketchbook aside and listlessly watch the TV. Mindlessly, my eyes dance across the screen, following Bambi as he stalks through the woods and meeting many wild creatures, such as bunnies and skunks, along the way.

Lewis’s words still echo in my head as I take Mason’s card between my fingers and tap it against my knuckle, reading it over and over again.

_Proceed with caution… Proceed with caution…_

Fatigue finally weighs my eyelids down with the TV screen becoming only a colorless blur and Lewis’s words slurring into a dull hum as I’m dragged down into sleep’s darkened embrace.


	4. Three

Wooded country stands proudly on either side of the road and arches overhead to create a sort of natural tunnel. The pines are thick. Thick and foggy.

It’s beautiful, though it becomes a boring sight as I putter along the road, tapping my hands against the steering wheel vaguely to the beat of David Bowie’s _Space Oddity_. Lewis allowed me to borrow his truck, a dark, burnt orange (similar to the hue of my knitted sweater and stockings) 1986 Ford pickup that he often uses for camping trips and picking up wood for his carvings, for the next few weeks as I visit Mason for our sessions. When I insisted on paying him for the time I’m to have with the truck, he merely made me promise that I’m to allow him to present my paintings for the remainder of the Walters Art Museum’s local exhibition week (while still crediting me) and to show him Mason’s portrait upon completion.

That was promise was made three days ago, and now I’m driving to the Verger Estate with a smile upon my lips and excitement flaming in my thrumming heart.

Underneath a tarp in the truck’s bed are all the supplies I will need for this first session: my sketchbook, a 60x40” canvas, an easel, and a bag filled with an assortment of sketching pencils, pens, and erasers; I’m waiting to bring paints.

Though it’s somewhat difficult to do with the inpatient air swelling inside the truck, within my mind I try to replay the directions Mason had given me over the phone without relying on the fading notes I scribbled upon my palm three days ago, “Second exit off the freeway heading west… Continue along until you’re kind of in wooded country—about a two-hour drive—then you will make a left when you see a sign reading ‘Muskrat Farm’… Keep driving further down the road until you come to the third driveway on the right where you’ll find gates, tell them why you’re here… Then continue until you come to the house!” Proud that I remember his instructions, I pat myself on the back.

I mentioned Mason’s directions to Lewis in brief passing, though I regret doing so as it only seemed to have heightened his concerns (probably because of how I described having to drive deep into Appalachian wilderness) and he practically begged for me to bring something—chemical mace, a pocketknife, a taser, _anything_ —for protection. Just to be sure, I reach over into my purse and smile in assurance when I feel the smooth, small, pill-shaped can of mace underneath my fingertips.

“Everything will be alright. Don’t let Lewis’s words bother you! Just… be cautious, be courteous, and everything will be fine!” I say, patting my hands against the steering wheel again.

I look down at the radio’s digital clock. It’s eleven AM, and I left the freeway a little after nine. Anxiously, my attention fixates on the road ahead for a sign. A thick layer of mist leaks from the trees and starts to snake across the road in grey, wispy tendrils, and, thankfully, they don’t obscure the road too badly yet.

“Muskrat Farm, Muskrat Farm…” I mutter to myself continuously. “What even is a muskrat?”

Then, I see it. It’s a well-crafted, wooden sign proudly displaying MUSKRAT FARM – EST. 1806 in bold white lettering. The edges of the sign and its message are worn with age, clearly having stood against the testaments of time in order to display its words to all passersby. Underneath the letters is a single arrow pointing towards the asphalt drive deviating from the main road, just as Mason had described.

The road I turn down is further darkened by the ever ever-thickening sea of pine, maple, oak, and elm forest towering on both sides; with the fog, the truck’s headlights struggle to provide successful illumination. But I do find the third drive Mason described. Unlike the first two, which are nothing more than paths of some mulchy material leading deeper into the wilderness, this third drive is of asphalt like the road beneath me now.

The sight of a tall wrought iron gate filling the entire width of the driveway does not surprise me and it isn’t a new sight for me as the neighborhood I grew up in was a gated community. Though the sight isn’t unfamiliar, the craftsmanship of this gate is what threatens to rob me of my breath. The gate itself is made entirely out of expensive black metal that’s fashioned into the winding, twisting designs of roses and vines that all eventually come together in the gate’s center to form a ‘V’. On both sides of the gates stand brick columns that support bronze statues resembling pigs—or maybe they’re boars? —with feathered wings arching high over their tusked snouts.

I was too enamored to even notice the little control panel and security camera mounted on one of the columns.

Quickly, I roll down my window, shut off the radio, and reach out an arm to press… a button? There’s just a numbered keypad beside a speaker, no button or some form of a doorbell for me to press to indicate my arrival.

But I suppose that’s what the purpose of the security camera is because a voice, deep and authoritative, growls from the speaker, “State your name and business, and show some form of identification.”

“Oh, it’s Edith Watts. I’m the painter hired by Mr. Verger,” I then dig into my wallet to produce my visa and driver’s license. I tap a pinky against the former, “This is a travel visa, just in case. I’m from England, you see, and—” I don’t even have a chance to finish my sentence before there’s a harsh buzzing followed by a loud squeal as the gates begin to open.

“O-oh, thank you, thank you!” I call and wave towards the camera before I slap my cards back into my purse and continue onward.

The forest only seems to get even darker and even thicker and I continue along the upward drive. At some point, the pavement gives way to gravel. Light illuminates the path as the trees break on my left and I see a large clearing through the pines’ low, snow-laden branches.

“Oh my God!” I gasp. Beyond the clearing is something that looks as though it belongs in a fairytale illustration rather than the woods of Maryland. It’s a lake, a massive one, overlooked by what seems to be a house… and not just a house, but rather a castle! Or I at think it may be a castle? The whole place is hugged by the bare, winter branches of the forest surrounding it, but the pointed tips of turrets and stone outcroppings still manage to impale through the bare, lifeless branches.

“Oh my God!” I repeat once I make it up the remainder of the hill and am at the house. Though to call this estate a mere house is an insult. It’s a palace, a castle, a _château_. Not just a house.

There must be at least four stories that all rise proudly into the wintry sky, though I think there may be even a fifth or sixth story amidst flying buttresses armed with gargoyles connecting together numerous turrets that tower so high that they’re swallowed by fog. Mullioned windows, some possessing their own balconies while others do not, are decorated by more of the winged boar statues. An air of dark grandeur and drama hangs thickly around the estate, almost as though the builder desired to unify the styles of baroque and Gothic into one shape that managed to be so holy yet unholy, so beautiful yet so grotesque. A unique hybrid of Notre Dame and Versailles.

Underneath my tires, the drive of white gravel leads all the way up to the front step and elaborate door (guarded by even more winged boars), then loops around a frozen, lifeless water fountain before slithering back into the darkness of the forest behind me.

I pull up to the front door and practically stumble out of the truck as the estate has captured my full attention.

“Oh my God… It’s beautiful…” is all I’m capable of saying. I wish to say more, but I fail to gather any words that’d be comprehensible. Though, I mustn’t allow the estate’s grandeur to distract me for too long. There’s work to be done!

My breath leaves my lips in wisps that intermingle with the misty air as I begin unloading my supplies. I want to bring them into the house in a single trip, so I attempt to strategically stuff everything together onto my arms like a haphazard puzzle.

I’m suddenly distracted by the sound of crunching on gravel and I turn to see the Boar pacing along the tree line. I merely flinch when the creature turns to stare at me with a harsh snort, nearly dropping my bag of pencils in the process, but then we just stand there, staring at one other for what must be the longest moment.

The beast blends perfectly into the shadows while still managing to be blacker than even the darkest night as it continues from the tree line and towards me, crimson eyes blazing. Its tusks are as white as the snow clinging the fountain’s icy lips as it steps closer, and its breath rises in a black mist from a mouth foaming and dripping with bile.

“No! S-Stay back--!” I begin as it comes closer, close enough for me to smell the rot emanating from its putrid form, but I stop when it walks past me, regarding me only with a single red eye before it lumbers up the front stair; its sharp hooves drag against the stone steps like nails against concrete. The door opens, revealing a stern-faced woman, before it even reaches the top step. My lips start moving with the beginnings of a warning about the Boar, but the woman doesn’t even notice it as it crosses the threshold and fades into her shadow.

_Right… Say nothing about the Boar._

“Hello, I’m Edith Watts!” I call up to the woman, attempting to wave with the hand that is propping the canvas against the toe of my boot.

The woman, perhaps only a few years my senior, doesn’t regard me with any form of welcoming expression, only one of concern, disdain, and confusion. She wears the uniform—crisp and red—of an equestrian rider. Obviously, it seems as though I’ve interrupted her plans.

But then a look of recognition crosses her features. “Ah, right. You must be the painter my brother has been talking about,” She speaks in a cool, chilled tone of apprehension as she steps— _glides_ —towards me. Up close, the woman is beautiful. Unnervingly beautiful. Her figure is lithe and powerful, even underneath the uniform, and her eyes are the same piercing blue and her braid the same shocking blond as Mason’s. Her mere presence exudes a royal, rich air that blends with her rose-and-wine scented perfume.

I nod and smile. “I am. I’m Edith,” I then offer a hand with the hopes that she’ll take it.

The woman’s posture softens slightly, though she still remains cautious as she takes my hand in one encased in a crisp glove of leather.

“Margot.” Her lips, as ruby red as her uniform, press into a tight, contrived smile as her blue eyes flicker from my supplies, then up to the house, then to the road behind me. “Well, do excuse me but I have something I need to do. My brother should be waiting for you on the back terrace—” A sense of urgent eagerness quickened the manner in which she spoke.

“Wait! Could…” I sigh, disappointed in myself for keeping Margot from her desired activities, “Could you help me carry these things inside? Please?”

Margot’s glance is cold, making my cheeks blaze with new embarrassment, but she sighs and snatches my pencil bag from my grasp and the easel from the truck bed with zero effort or struggle.

She leads me up the stair and I hastily say, “Oh, thank you, so much! You can just leave it right here—yes, thank you again, Margot!” I chirp as we enter the front foyer and drop my things at the base of a grand, sweeping stair adorned with gilded banisters and red carpet.

“Your home is absolutely…” I’m too enamored at how the interior of the house, too, possess vaguely Gothic architecture that I fail to find a word far more flattering than just ‘beautiful, but then Margot finds it for me.

“It’s horrible, isn’t it?” Her tone portrays no sarcasm, but merely a stone-cold truth. She glances around the grand foyer with its high walls, golden chandeliers, the numerous paintings and windows adorning the crimson-red walls with an expression of great scorn.

All sorts of canvases and images fill the walls. Some are portraits of Georgian era nobles, landscapes of grand castles and palace gardens, and complex, glorious scenes of kings upon royal horses (or were they painted as unicorns?) surrounded by fellow hunters and their foxhounds that were in pursuit of some sort of hideous, woodland beast. These kinds of paintings were obviously bought from a museum in order to invoke some sense of nobility, though Lewis made it seem as though the Vergers were as close to aristocratic nobility as an American family could be. But then there are some paintings that were clearly bought just to flaunt wealth: such as the painting of a single pear hanging over a window.

My brows furrow as I take in the red walls and the blackened wood adorning the pointed arches of the home’s thresholds and the ribbed vaults spider-webbing across the ceiling and underneath the chandeliers.

“I don’t think it’s that bad.” I murmur, though mostly to myself. Thankfully, Margot doesn’t seem to have heard me.

She sighs and brushes her hands together. “Well, I was going to go for a quick ride, but since I’m in here, I might as well just bring you to my brother.” She doesn’t even wait for me before strolling past the grand stair and into a hallway to its right. I try to follow, but she walks with the powerful stride of a mare that easily outpaces my own.

“Thank you, again,” I say.

The halls she leads me through are the same as the foyer: red wallpaper overstuffed with paintings and antiques ( _Where is Mason going to have space for his portrait?_ ), glittering chandeliers hanging from high ceilings and emitting golden glows despite the copious amounts of natural light spilling in from the windows, and winged boar statues guarding the oaken thresholds of doors, just as they did with the Vergers’ front gate and their doorstep.

Margot eventually leads me to a wide—massive—spacious room that is some sort of solarium. Three of the room’s four walls are nothing but tall panes of glass that expose a terrace extending outward from the house and overlooking an expansive garden and the forest below. Further beyond, however, lie the Appalachian Mountains. A whole line of darkened mounds that are silhouettes made eerie by the grey mist filling the atmosphere. But even at this distance, they are beautiful and are enough to leave my mouth hanging agape.

“Enjoying the view?”

I’m initially startled upon hearing Mason’s nasal tone, but I plaster on a bright grin when I turn to greet him. His back is leaning against a cylindrical aquarian tank that’s far too large for a man to wrap his arms around and stretches from the floor to the ceiling before extending well into the room above us (perhaps a bedroom?). Multicolored fish swim throughout the tank and in between the vibrant forest coral forest decorating it. Hiding underneath a rock, a moray eel with a gaping maw filled with what seems like millions of tiny, white teeth, stares upward at Mason before it diverts it attention to a small school of blue fish that frighten it back into its stony lair.

Past the tank and in the corner of the room darkened by Mason’s shadow, I see the Boar. It stands there, silent and unmoving. Its tusks perfectly frame Mason’s form like broken wings, though, just like Margot, he doesn’t notice. Its red eyes gleam much in the same way his signet ring does.

_Don’t mention the Boar, don’t mention the Boar, Edith!_

“Oh, yes! Your home is beautiful!” I finally exclaim, my gaze flickering around the solarium before settling back on Mason. His attire is the very same as the day we met at the museum: neatly tailored, white waistcoat and blue dress shirt complimenting the pinstripe style of his trousers. His blond hair remains unkept and his blue eyes lively, unlike Margot’s own well-groomed, tempered appearance.

He smiles and nods to her. “I see you’ve met my sister.”

“I have, yes! Oh, thank you again for helping me with my things Margot! You could stay and I could do a portrait for you too—”

I suddenly feel Mason’s hand clamp down on my shoulders and presses me against him so we both face Margot. He’s still wearing pine-and-sea-spray cologne, though it’s far more potent now.

“Actually, I think Margot was just about to go on down to the farm for a ride. I’m sure Miss Watts would prefer working in peace with little distraction,” Mason insists, and Margot’s frown of indifference deepens.

My brow scrunches and I look up at him, but he continues to hold her gaze with an unwavering intensity. “No, that wouldn’t be an issue at all! It would actually be a treat to have her stay and—”

Margot interrupts me with a chilled, “No, he’s right.” She then walks past us with a brisk pace determined to remain uninterrupted. “I’ll be back.”

And, just like that, I’m alone with Mason.

“I… I haven’t offended her, have I?” I ask, though mostly to myself as I watch her go, but he offers an answer by a simple wave of his hand as he steps away.

“Not at all! She’s just a bitch.”

Before I can react to the casual brutality within the bluntness of his statement, he claps his hands together with the apparent return of his vibrant enthusiasm.

“So! Shall we get started?”

#

It takes approximately thirty minutes for Mason and I to bring all my things back to the solarium and have everything set up to at least begin the sketching stage.

“So, what we’re doing today is starting a sketch,” I explain, moving back and forth across the room as I assemble my stool and then drag an armchair facing that was initially facing outside back until it’s propped against the wall in between the cylindrical aquarium and the liquor cabinet Mason’s currently rummaging through. “All I require is for you to pose, then I will sketch that pose! It won’t take long, I promise.”

Mason plops down into the chair with a heavy breath and takes a sip from his newly made martini with a nod. “Alright! You work your magic then, Miss Watts!” His arms expand out, martini glass still cradled in his fingers, as an invitation to touch and move him into a desired position.

“Oh, just Edith, please. I don’t like being known as a ‘Watts’,” I say. A slight blush comes to my cheeks as I move his arms so that they rest on the arms of the chair and lightly brush my fingers against his face as I turn it just enough that it’ll give me a three-fourths view of his face. As I step back, I take a moment to observe.

Mason is sitting with a straight, rigid posture with his arms resting on the chair (his one hand remains holding his glass, despite my advice to put it down for a moment) and his head turned so that his eyes look into the distant wilderness behind me. He is modeled to look as though he’s a king overlooking his great kingdom.

“And why is that? That you don’t like being known as a Watts?” He asks.

Deciding that I’m satisfied with the position, I grab my sketchbook and sit on my stool. “Because I don’t like flaunting my parents’ name and the wealth it makes people think of. It’s a bad public image, I think, being seen as a spoiled rich kid.”

When Mason’s face adopts an expression of offense, I quickly add, “N-Not that that’s a bad thing! What I’m trying to say is that I want to be known by my own name for my own achievements,” I pause to draw the soft, curved angles of his face with a tender hand, “I couldn’t live with myself piggybacking off my parents’ accomplishments, especially known I possess none of their talents; I wouldn’t feel… fulfilled.”

His lips still possess a curl hinting at a dissatisfied snarl like a child about to throw a fit, and my stomach drops.

_Great job, Edith. Not even an hour into work and you fucked up._

I lower my sketchbook so I can look at him fully. “I’m sorry, Mr. Verger. I meant no offense, truly!” Sincerity weighs my tone, and I hope it somehow appeals to his better nature. That is if he even has one. “I…I tend to forget to be mindful regarding my words and who’s listening to them when I ramble.”

“You can drop formalities, too. Just call me Mason,” His tone is calm and his face relaxes when he brings the martini glass to his lips, “But I guess I get what you’re saying. It’s gotta be embarrassing having a parent write erotica.”

The brutal bluntness returns to his tone, and it stings.

 _I never said I was embarrassed. Especially of my mother’s career._ But Mason’s demeanor is just as it was before, so I keep myself quiet as to not accidentally upset him again.

“So,” I break the heavy silence, “You obviously know how my parents obtained their wealth and notoriety. I’d be interested how your family has gotten yours. I’ve been eager to know what kind of occupation leads a family to have a house as grand as this!”

“Meat packaging. Pigs, mostly.” ( _Duh! It said it on the business card! Verger Meat Packaging, Co!_ ) He answered stiffly, though I can’t tell if it’s from what I’ve said or the ache of sitting still for so long. But the beginnings of a proud grin eek into his features. “This house has been in my family since my great-great-great-great grandpop, Matthias Verger. I inherited it—this house, Muskrat Farm, the company—from my Pop when he died five years ago; all Margot got was some of the horses she raised when we were kids.”

_Is he proud of his family’s history or the fact he’s the sole inheritor of his father’s wealth? And didn’t Lewis say his father ran a religion bootcamp?_

I don’t dare to ask, though.

“Well, I think we should keep all that in mind when we move forward to add telling details to the—Ah! Don’t move!” I scold, careful to keep my tone playful, when he takes another drink and crosses his legs (“Oh, right, right. Sorry,” then he resumes his position with his dimpled half-smile returning.).

I begin outlining his basic figure and say, “Now if you feel sore or that you need to move, you just have to tell me! I prefer that my subjects remain comfortable.

“I will show you the final sketch, of course, and that will be your time to tell me what you wish to have changed. It’ll be how you’ll be remembered by all future Vergers to come, so it needs to be just how _you_ want it, how _you_ want to be remembered!”

He scoffs, though the sound is light and hints at a chuckle. Another smile teases at his lips and the beginnings of dimples pierce his cheeks.

We continue in silence until I finish his vague form and the beginnings of his waistcoat and trousers. That’s when I sit back and allow myself a gander at the sketch underneath the solarium’s light.

“Hum…”

“What is it? Is something wrong?” Mason’s breath, still smelling heavily of his martini, shocks my ear, and I suppress a yelp. I didn’t even hear him get up!

His face brightens. “Oh wow! That’s fantastic!” He says with the air of an easily amused child.

However, I disagree. The lighting has shown me why, though.

“No, it feels empty. It’s not full… I think it’s your arms. It would be better if you were to hold something, I think. What if you were holding something that attributes to your image?”

Mason faces scrunches as he adopts a look of thought before his face brightens with an idea. “Edith, how about we go get a pig?”


	5. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tw: thoughts of implied rape, pedophilia, and incest.

Mason feels a need to be around Edith. A flaming desire. It’s like an urge, an instinct, drawing him to her and smoldering deep within his groin.

As he leads her down to the Farm, he wants to be closer to her, he wants to touch her, he wants to claim her. And he’s perfectly capable of doing so right as this very moment. They’re hidden perfectly in the woods as the trail connecting the Verger Estate’s rose garden to the Farm, the trail Margot often utilizes for riding. And there’s no one around that could hear her screams… no one around to see them.

Any other time, Mason would’ve had Kenneth, the Vergers’ groundskeeper, drive them down to the Farm on his golf cart or even had Edith drive them, but upon seeing the rusted state of her vehicle and the fact he had wished to be alone with her, he decided that they were to walk the trail.

The imprint of fresh hoofprints mar the dirt path, and Mason makes a point of scuffing them with the toe of his shoe.

“This place is just… It’s so beautiful!” Edith’s wonderstruck breath catches his attention, and when he turns to face her, he sees that her gaze remains fixated on the estate and a garden filled with hedges, trellises, and broken statues adorned with roses all varying in shades of red, pink, white, orange, and yellow; much like the yellow roses, her short, golden hair practically illuminates within this shadowed, snow-laden darkness.

He can’t resist another smirk fueled by pride.

“You seem shocked about seeing a fancy house. You’re from England. Aren’t there, like, castles everywhere?” He asks, shoving his gloved hands into the felt-lined pockets of his off-white coat. The fur embellishing his collar warms his throat and tickles his cheeks when he turns to look at her wearing her black overcoat with the worn sleeves and collar over a burnt-orange sweater.

“Castles are mostly in the country. My parents never really let me travel growing up. I think I only left London’s city limits a grand total of…” she falls silent when her button nose and pale, pink lips scrunch with deep concentration, “I think three times? Two of them were to visit my grandparents in Dublin, and the other was a trip to Paris when I turned eighteen. Most castles I saw were crumbling, anyways. Nothing as whole or grand as your estate.

“And, no, before you ask, my parents aren’t rich enough for a castle,” Amusement lightens her tone, “They still live in the same townhouse I grew up in.”

After scanning over her attire with her coat, sweater, leggings and boots, Mason can tell that her family isn’t wealthy. Or, well, _Verger_ wealthy. Her parents—the famed Timothy M. and Lucille Watts whose writings both of his parents had once adored—must be upper-middle, perhaps even on the lower rungs of the upper class. Rich enough to live comfortably and to treat and spoil themselves quite frequently while also being able to comprehend and sympathize with those less fortunate than themselves.

Mason was fortunate to be raised in the upmost comfort while being taught to pay no mind to those suffering beneath the boot of his family’s wealth. And he still pays no mind. Why should he?

“Hm. So you’re the poor variant of rich,” He says, bluntly. Pop told him to never hold back from speaking his mind and sharing his thoughts, and Mason does no such thing. He often voices whatever’s on his mind, not necessarily caring if he hurt feelings along the way. In fact, he always prays that he can somehow someone with his words. Why would he care if he did, especially when seeing a face twisted in pain brings him ultimate satisfaction?

“Dear Mister and Missus Watts sound awful controlling.” He then muses when Edith’s face twists with something hinting at offense and tries to force the sound of interest into his voice. As much as her conversations bore him, especially the ones regarding art, he tries to seem as though he’s invested.

“Oh, they were! They’re awfully controlling! That’s why I came here to the States and cut my hair,” She removes the orange stocking cap from the back quarter of her head before running her fingers, her small, thin, white fingers, through the tousled mess of her hair. “It used to be well past my shoulders, if you can believe it.”

Mason tries imagining her with long hair. Long, curling waves of gold tumbling down her shoulders, practically to the floor, giving her the appearance of some kind of Rapunzel. He hates the image and quickly banishes it from his mind, though he humors her with a smile and a quick, “Oh, I believe it!”

_With long hair, she doesn’t look like Mother._

He was lucky—blessed, in fact—to have encountered Edith’s exhibit at the Walters Art Museum. He was, in fact, in search of an artist to commission, and he had just so happened to come across her artwork. Though it wasn’t her artwork that enraptured him, but rather how she looked. She almost perfectly resembles the late Margery Verger with her cropped, yellow hair, round face, pixie-like petite-ness, brown eyes practically overflowing with naïve, foolish innocence…

It was at that very moment Mason knew he _needed_ her.

How lucky he is that she’s a foreigner unaware of the Verger’s history… the summer camp, the charges, the children, the therapy…

_I’m quite lucky, indeed._

“Where are we going, anyway?” Edith asks, taking her time to step over a considerably large log that obstructs the trail. She takes Mason’s offered hand to maintain her balance.

 _My God…_ Even when wearing gloves her touch felt like fire. Her hand is so tiny and almost inhumanely white against the black palm of his glove. _It’s like the hand of a child…_ Tendons and veins trace along beneath her snowy skin, and he’s quick to release.

“To the Farm. It’s where my family tries breeding new pigs, better pigs! Ones that have more meat and are hearty. Sometimes we let local schools bring kids there to learn about farming or meat packaging, I think? I dunno, Margot usually handles that sort of stuff.”

“That’s charitable of you, letting children come to your farm, to teach them! I wanted to teach art when I first came to America, but I didn’t want to go through the hassle of a license. And I don’t think children would very much appreciate an art style that isn’t all cartoons, like Disney.”

Mason chuckles. “Then I suppose we’re lucky that you’re here, painting for me now. Your style is far too amazing to be taught to children, I think.” _It’s hard making compliment sound genuine._

A light pink hue spots across her pale cheeks and nose, and she tries to hide it by looking down with a smile. “I suppose we _are_ lucky.”

She’s nothing more than a flustered little girl, and Mason loves it.

The Farm comes into view, and it’s obvious that the sight of it is dismal and underwhelming after the sight of the estate. The building itself is a standard two-story barn and stables. Even from this distance, a chaotic symphony of animals and their stench are heard and smelled.

Out of the corner of his eye, Edith’s face contorts. He knows she wants to show her disgust towards the animals’ smell (everyone always does), but it appears that her desire to appear polite is overpowering her desire to express her revolt.

“It smells like shit. I know, it’s okay,” He insists, then chuckles when her face completely warps into one of utter disgust.

“It’s awful,” She squeaks past the hand that covers her mouth and nose.

“And that’s on raising pigs, I’m afraid,” He huffs and rests his hands on his hips while looking down at the dour barn. “But we will need a pig for the portrait, and I think it’ll pay off!” He doesn’t wait for her before he tromps down the trail.

The stench only grows more potent as they get closer, but Mason doesn’t care. He’s grown accustomed to the smell, though he hates how it always manages to get imprinted into his clothes.

Inside the Farm, they’re greeted by a line of stables with about three stalls on each side. All six but one are occupied by horses. Beautiful ones. Two of them are chestnut-colored mares (Peggy and Avery), one is a black Friesian (Finley), a Clydesdale (Lennie), a small Shetland pony (Marie), and the horse that’s missing is Margot’s personal favorite horse to ride on the trails: a snow-white Arabian mare she had named Guinevere.

Edith is tracing her fingers along the letters of the metal plaques nailed to each stall, her lips mouthing the names of each horse. She stops at Lennie’s stall with a short gasp followed by a laugh as the great Clydesdale’s snout pokes towards her with a curious sniff; she’s so short she doesn’t even come to the beast’s shoulder. It’s like observing a kindergartener on a fieldtrip being fascinated by the largeness of a horse.

“Margot raises them for equestrian shows. They’re what she usually spends her allowance on.” Mason explains and leans against one of the stalls, then casts a glare towards Peggy inside it when Edith isn’t looking.

“An allowance… Interesting.” She hums. Her look even tinier as they tentatively stroke Lennie’s brown muzzle, and she looks completely enthralled by the creature. “She’s raising these horses well, I think.”

Mason feels a desire to toss another casual insult regarding his sister, but he refrains. He just realized that he now has a façade to maintain… a masquerade to dance where he mustn’t stutter with his steps. He’s currently running on luck… the rest is now up to him.

“You’re gonna have to tell her that once she’s back from her ride. But, for now, we need a little piggy! C’mon, follow me.” Once again, he doesn’t wait for her to follow him, but instead grabs her by her shoulders (he smirks when she sharply gasps with the sudden touch) and ushers her through the remainder of the stables and through another doorway that leads to the main complex of the Farm.

This room possesses a far fouler stench, as it’s filled with various pens, all of which contain different breeds of pigs.

“Here, we have Vietnamese pot-bellies, Swabian-Halls, Tamworth’s, Berkshires, to name a few,” Mason makes vague gestures to some of the pens containing swine possessing so much body fat that it folds across their ugly snouts while there’s others where the piglets run around their napping mothers and approach their gates as Mason and Edith pass.

When passing a pen of impressive Hampshire pigs, Mason procures a blade from his trousers’ pocket. He’s satisfied at Edith’s stunned choke, then is pleased with her yelp when his hand lashes out and slices one of the beast’s shoulder. The Hampshire squeals a god-awful cry, but it soon dampens to a casual snort.

He raises the blade to his face so the blood glints like a fresh-cut ruby underneath the grey daylight filtering in through the Farm’s roof. He always finds beauty in fresh blood, and more so in the pain it causes. As a boy, he remembers how the late Molson Verger would cut at the backs of hogs to see if they were perfect for slaughter yet. Mason doesn’t do it to test fat, however. He just does it for the blood, for the _pleasure_.

Edith seems to share a similar fascination with the blood, and then he remembers the care—the passion—that she must’ve bewitched her while painting the rabbit’s blood in her piece _Life, Death, Birth_.

“It’s what my father used to do. To test and see if a pig was ready for slaughtering, you see.” He explains as he folds the blade and tucks it back into his pocket.

“Ah… I suppose that’s just what you… meat packagers, do?”

He shrugs, smiling. “Somewhat, yes. So,” a dull clap resonates as he brings his leather gloves together and turns on his heel, spinning so he can look over all the pens. “What kind of pig would you want in our portrait, hm?”

“Oh? Y-you want me to choose?” A dumbstruck look crosses her face. The way her face slacks and her brows arch make her seem even more childlike, much to Mason’s excitement.

“But of course! It’s only fair as you’re the painter!”

Edith begins looking around, too, and even starts wandering, first approaching the hyperactive Hampshire piglets before deviating towards the Tamworths. Much like the Hampshires, several piglets and a young male approach the gate of their pen with eager squeals, as if they are puppies trapped within the bodies of porcine creatures.

Glancing back at him, she points a glove down at the Tamworths. “I think one of these will do.”

“Ah, Tamworth pigs,” Mason praises and, without hesitation, swoops in and spoons up one of the piglets, the smallest one amongst them, the runt. The creature squeals until he holds it close, coddling it as if it’s a baby. Through his gloves, he feels the pig’s teats. It’s a young female.

He tries to not outwardly express his disdain when her tiny hooves leave dirt tracks across the breast of his coat. He notes that she’ll need a good wash if she’s to be in his painting, especially if Edith wishes for her to pose upon his lap.

“You know, it’s believed that this is the oldest breed of pig, and that it’s a decedent of wild boars,” He holds the piglet out towards Edith, and she is quick to scoop her into her arms with an almost maternal tenderness. With the bright ginger-brown hairs covering her back, the tiny pig stands in stark contrast to the blackness of Edith’s coat.

“Ah…” She clearly isn’t listening to his history lesson in favor of coddling the pig. She possesses a smile as the little creature quiets, resorting instead to content snorts as she huddles against her breast.

A noise suddenly rips across the room, and Edith gasps while tightening her protective hold on the pig. Rather than share this newfound fright, Mason merely smiles. He hopes she’ll ask what the source of the noise was.

To his amusement, she does.

“What was that?” Her voice is nothing more than a timid whisper, borderline a whimper.

“My new project!” He chirps while trotting further into the room of pens, towards a set of stairs leading to a wooded balcony overlooking a separate enclosure that, unlike the others, is fortified by metal fences rather than simple wood planks.

“C’mon, come see!” He urges her to follow as he mounts the stairs. He feels like a child wanting to show off what toys he all received for Christmas, and his smile widens as Edith joins him in ascending the stairs.

“C’mon, c’mon!” He waves for her to join him on the balcony, overlooking this more advanced pen.

And she does. Holding the piglet close to her chest, she stands close to him and tentatively looks over the edge. As soon as she does, the creatures within squeal and she jumps back with a yelp. Fear decorates her face, and it’s beautiful.

Any other man would’ve caught her, to protect and comfort her, but Mason doesn’t. People look more afraid when someone isn’t there to catch and console them.

“What… what are they?” she whispers, her words sputtering painfully past her lips.

“Pigs, obviously!” Mason purrs with a proud smugness and peers over the edge again. Several bodies, massive, muscular, black, and furious, are writhing together like hairy leeches. Underneath the grey light, there’s the brief gleam of tusks stained with the blood of last night’s meal: the defective carcasses of their fellow porcine brethren that were deemed unfit for slaughter.

“Boars is a more accurate description, though. Just a side project of mine,” He says far too simply. “For hearty meat, if you can recall.” _And as a weapon to invoke fear._

Her eyes widen and her throat bobs upon the mentioning of the word ‘boar’. He smiles, now knowing the word brings her his much-desired terror.

“O-Oh…” She murmurs, stepping back. “How about we return to our art session, now, Mr. Verger?”

“Oh, of course, of course, Edith! My apologies! But now at least we have our pig,” He beams, following her down the stairs, through the stables, and back outside.

As they begin back on the trail back to the estate, Mason can tell that she remains visibly shaken with how she clutches the snorting piglet against her chest.

Any other time, he’d smile and lavish in the fear her brought her. But no… he decides that he can’t now.

_Be a gentleman! Hold her, make her feel safe._

And he does. He places his hands on her shoulders as he presses her into his side as they walk with a brisk pace. She feels so warm against him, and he’s nearly drunken by her scent of chocolate and wood intermingled with her delicious distress.

Though he doesn’t want to be courteous and comforting, he has to.

As long as he plays his cards right, maintains a façade, and if Margot manages to remain silent, he will have his pure Verger heir…


	6. Five

The following three sessions (which have been spanned across two weeks) are no different than our first. Well, not exactly, but they’re filled with nothing but sketching. During the second session, with Mason’s help, I finalize our first sketch; the third, I transfer it onto the canvas; the fourth, I finalize our canvased design.

I’ve been grateful that Mason’s been so eager to help and offer some insight into the artwork. The bridge between subject and artist, fortunately, is shortening and brings us closer together. And I think he’s come to enjoy modeling, especially when Little Charlotte occupies his lap; The piglet he allowed me to pick out for his portrait has become an essential part of the routine Mason have developed during our painting process, from curiously sniffing at the eel lurking in the aquarium’s depths to accompanying us on our occasional strolls through the Verger’s gardens.

Even now, during our fifth session while I’m sorting my various paints on a folding card table, Mason models with Little Charlotte napping between his legs and his typical half-full martini glass cradled in his right hand.

“You know, you don’t have to model anymore, right?” I ask with a chuckle and I look up from stirring my white and grey paints together to make a satisfying, pearly off-white shade intended for Mason’s vest and the fur trim of his overcoat in the portrait.

“Of course! I just like doing it,” a hand strokes Charlotte’s back and intertwines with the silken pink ribbon around her throat I gave her as a makeshift collar, “Plus I find myself fascinated watching you paint, Edith.” He adds and levies a blond brow when he raises his glass to his lips that’re quirked into a small grin.

A certain heat burns my ears and threatens to spill into my cheeks, so I divert my gaze back down to my paints. It’s grown difficult to ignore the flutter in my gut whenever he compliments my paintings.

This heat suddenly becomes a blazing flame when I feel his chest against my back as he leans over me to observe the painting. Charlotte calmly snorts from where she’s nestled within the crook of his elbow. Her amber-brown coat compliments the light brown embroidery of Mason’s waistcoat.

My heart painfully slams against my ribs as I try to take a moment to comprehend his sudden appearance. _Damn, he’s quiet! How does he do it?_

“Hm…” His inquisitive sigh tickles against my neck, and I pray he cannot see the redness I can feel creeping and sneaking across my cheeks.

“What? What is it?” I ask, my tone worried as I look up at them, then back to the canvas.

The portrait is still a mere sketch, just a husk, a phantom, of the man I’m to breathe life into with the use of paints.

Rather than his usual armchair, I portray Mason atop a throne with designs of boars and pigs and blades and serpents (though now I wonder if they’re more eels than my intended snakes) etched into the throne’s framing, having taken inspiration from the Vergers’ thresholds.

Mason himself is cloaked in a grand coat lined with fur circling his throat and chest like a great mane. His gazes focuses on something far beyond the canvas, and his face is sketched with a tender, but yet authoritative, softness. I neglected to include his glasses, opting to add details to his eyes and aspire for them to be a heavenly shade of blue. In his lap is the sketch of Charlotte, though, upon his request, I fashioned her to be more boar-like by bulking her frame and disfiguring her petite snout into a rugged muzzle armed with tusks. I also made sure I put extra care when it came to drawing his signet ring and attempted to sketch it at the top of the canvas; he’s been kind enough to allow me to keep his ring for one evening in order to practice the Verger family crest.

“Is… there something wrong with it?”

“No, not at all! It’s… beautiful, I think.” He’s so close that his lips briefly brush against my ear, and a shiver crawls through my body. “How about we take a break, hm? Let’s go for a little walk so that you can have a clear mind before painting. I’ll give you a tour of the estate!”

“A tour? Wow, how chivalrous!” I chirp with sarcasm, my attention diverting back to my paints. When I’m about to start mixing colors together to make a supple shade of red, Mason’s hand covers mine.

“I’m serious! I wanna show you around the house a bit! Maybe show you some of my family’s portraits!”

Sighing, I finally give him my full, undivided attention, and can’t help but have an amused smile as the childish eagerness brightening his eyes. He was this eager when he wanted to show me his boars at the Farm. The sound, the smell… the creatures still haunt my mind, and it doesn’t help that the Boar always lingers behind Mason and me in the shadows of wherever we go, like the gardens, the driveway, the forest, et cetera, with its red eyes always watching our every move.

“Alright, fine. Just a quick tour,” I place a damp paper towel I have on hand over my mixed paints to preserve them for when we return, “I don’t want to waste our precious session time, though!”

“No, no, not at all!” Mason insists, grabbing my shoulders, as he always does, and guides me out of the solarium. Charlotte trots beside us, attached to the leash looped around his wrist. “I promise it won’t take long! I just thought you’d like to see my family’s portraits. For inspiration, of course.”

I perk, smiling. “More Verger portraits? I’d love to see them!” _Then maybe I could get some of his promised inspiration, too. I could find out how to make his portrait like the rest!_ But did I really want Mason’s portrait to be like those of the others? Wouldn’t I rather it be unique?

_Yes, I would! And I will make it unique!_

However, I decide that I’d much rather humor Mason and follow him as he pushes and pulls me through several halls, up the grand stair, and to the world of the second floor. It’s very much the same as the first, though, nonetheless, I find myself in awe and wonderstruck by the Gothic-Baroque hybrid architecture.

As we pass windows, I always slow my pace enough so I can take a moment to observe the wilderness just outside. It’s a rare sunny day, and it’s beautiful. Just below us, in the woods, I catch a brief glimpse of white and red as Margot rides Guinevere along the forest trails.

“You coming?” Mason’s voice echoes from the end of the hall, where he leans against a room’s threshold. He possesses a demure, though somewhat bored, smile.

“Yes, sorry!”

We continue through what a labyrinthine system of halls—I can’t even recall which way we came to get to where we are! —until we come to a room that’s much like the solarium where it’s very tall and very wide, almost as if it were meant to be an art gallery. Though unlike the solarium, the walls are all solid, boasting no windows or aquariums, and are filled with an organized myriad of portraits: The proud, stoic, regal figures of past Vergers.

Slowly, I walk up and down the room, my eyes cast upward as I gawk at the paintings. They’re all well-painted, well-loved, and well-admired. By reading the little plaques displaying the subjects’ names and the year the painting was finished adorning the bottom parts of these portraits, I trace the beginnings of these paintings with a patriarch named Maximillian Verger and his wife Millicent from 1756 and fine the ending with who I assume to be Mason’s father, Molson Verger.

Though each painting varies ever-so-slightly in their style (some possess a more rococo or baroque style of painting, some reflect a more Dadaist approach to art, and there are some far more contemporary and photorealistic in their style), they all possess similar color palettes possessing shades of golds, reds, purples, and blues and whites. I take a mental note, noting how I ought to add a splash or two of red into Mason’s portrait.

“They’re all amazing! I didn’t realize I’d have so much competition!”

Mason chuckles from where he stands, observing a portrait of the late Molson Verger (according to his plaque, his portrait was painted in 1989), “I find your style far more pleasing to look at. You capture my good side really well,” He says with his smug half-smile, and I laugh.

“I suppose you’re right!” I come to stand beside him, and Little Charlotte sniffs at my boots.

I struggle to maintain my positive attitude as I join Mason in observing his father’s painting. The late Molson Verger’s portrait is… unpleasant to look at. Whomever painted it must not have favored the man well, because his face is painted with an overly detailed, wrinkled sneer that’s teeth are shaded in a way that they’re yellow and pointed. Though obviously still a young man no older than thirty, his golden hairline is receded, and his ice-blue eyes glare down at us in a fierce, cruel, hateful stare. While seated in the chair and having his left hand resting on the shoulder of one of the pigs guarding him, Molson’s figure is rotund and unflattering, as if the painter wanted their subject to be as porcine as the creatures beside him; adorning the other hand, the one clasping the lapel of his suit, is Mason’s signet ring with the Verger crest painted with illuminating pride.

I don’t flinch when Mason’s hands, again, clamp down on my shoulders.

Still enamored with the painting and refusing to take a gaze filled with nothing but pure adoration, away from his father’s, he leans to me and breathes, “Why don’t you stay for dinner tonight?”

“D-Dinner? I don’t think I can—”

“Why?” He cuts me off abruptly with a slight tightening of his grip. His brows furrow in some sort of deep concern (or is it annoyance?), though his gaze is still fixated upwards. “You have a boyfriend to get home to or something? I… I don’t want to keep you from anything—er, or anyone!”

“No, it’s not that—” _Dammit, Edith! Tread carefully, remember what Lewis said!_ “It’s just…I don’t want to impose. I don’t want you to go through the trouble!”

He finally looks down at me, and my heart stutters. “It’s no trouble at all, Edith! I’d be honored to have you as a guest for dinner. And I’m sure Margot would enjoy the company, as well.” He says, starting to coax me from the gallery. “But in the meantime, let us finish our painting! Break time is over. We have work to do!”

“Oh, yes, right! Let us commence the painting!” I cheer, taking a final glance behind us before we exit the room.

A thought crosses my mind as we leave the room and return down to the solarium. Almost every gentleman was portrayed with a woman at his arm… a wife or perhaps several consorts. But Molson Verger is portrayed with no woman… no girl. He was painted by himself.

_Where is Mason’s mother’s portrait?_

#

I don’t know what to expect for a rich, American dinner. Are they like in the movies, where they have lavish feasts at tables overflowing with expensive meats and the finest wines? Or do they just have McDonald’s served on fine china with gilded eatery? The only American food I’ve known for the year I’ve lived in this country is fast food, Lewis’s cooking, and ravioli from his favorite bistro. I’m not sure what to expect!

The dining room at least looks rich with its red walls, ribbed vaults careening across the ceiling, and the golden-orange glow cast by the chandeliers, sconces, and mammoth fireplace. Upon a closer inspection, the cherry wood mantle is ornately carved into designs of writhing serpents, elk antlers, trotting foxes, and wild boars. The carving is beautiful… _Though not as smooth and ornate as Lewis’s work._

The table, though long and meant to host a feast for at least five families, and chairs, though grand in number, are somewhat standard in terms of their carving.

I feel so tiny being alone in this room. Even with Charlotte sniffing around at my feet, the sheer, hollow immensity of the room makes me feel utterly alone. Or at least until Mason returns, balancing two bowls in one hand, two wine glasses in the other, and a bottle of wine pinned against his body by his elbow.

“Just some leftover soup,” He says as he sets down a bowl and glass down before me, then takes a seat. The bowl’s contents are a creamy chowder filled with vegetables and some sort of meal. “Clam chowder.”

“Clam chowder,” I repeat, lightly stirring with a spoon that looks as though it’s made of pure silver. “I thought rich Americans had feasts that were far more… elaborate.”

“Disappointed?” That brief expression of insult crosses his face, only to soon be replaced by smug amusement.

“Oh, no, not at all!” I say, swiping some of the remaining soup from my spoon with my tongue. The soup itself is rich with a creaminess that’s accentuated by the presence of the clam meat, which tastes as though it were freshly bought from a market rather than from a can. Genuinely, it tastes delicious! “It’s just in movies they make it seem like the rich here in America eat lavishly!”

“One could argue that they do with the rich in England, y’ know.”

“Hm,” _He has a point_ , “Perhaps you’re right…” I hum with a forced, overly dramatic groan weighing in my voice as he pours us both some wine.

“I just have a personal chef that cooks for us every other day. Alessandro is a hoot, I tell you! And he cooks a mean pork roast!”

_Ah, a personal chef… That fits the rich trope!_

“I’d love to meet him someday and give him my personal compliments to—”

We’re interrupted by the distant slamming of a door, the approaching click of heels against marble, and then Margot’s entrance into the dining hall, still donning her riding uniform and her tight, blonde plait. She pauses her walk, abruptly, and stares at us, her icy eyes flickering between the two of us as her angled eyebrows slowly come together and a slight sneer sneaks onto her lips.

“What’s she still doing here? It’s well-past dark.” She asked, her tone remaining leveled and chilled.

My heart races with a new embarrassment and I swallow harshly as heat flushes from my cheeks. “I’m sorry, Margot. I-I should be going right about—” But Mason stops me from rising by placing a firm hand over my own and squeezes.

“Edith is my guest, Margot. _Our_ guest. One of honor. I think we ought to be treating her like one,” He shifts his gaze from me to his sister with an intensity that makes my skin crawl. “Don’t you?”

Her expression doesn’t falter, but I can see that something in her eyes does… the slightest flicker of concern that threatens to reach beyond her eyes and to her brows, but she, somehow, keeps it maintained and tamed like a wild stallion. And she says nothing either, just merely presses her crimson lips into a line before turning on her heel and walking back out the door she had entered through.

“I should probably go…” I begin and try to stand again.

“No.” His grip tightens, his tone becomes firm, and he finally looks at me. “I want you to stay… please.” His tone now is gentle and pleading. His face softens, as does his grip. He is like a child pleading for the attention and love of his mother.

My heart flutters, sending a warm tickle rising through my chest and coursing down into my gut. I feel warm and tender, and it compels me to return to my seated position with the beginnings of a soft smile.

“Fine, I’ll stay… But thank you for having me for dinner, Mason. This…” I glance down at my half empty bowl, let my eyes wander the elaborate dining room containing us, and finally settling my gaze upon him and then to his hand still encasing mine like a pale cage. The metal of his signet ring is ice-cold and bites me with bitter, unseen teeth. “This is an honor.”

He smiles when he traces his finger around the lip of his glass. “And it’s an honor to have a guest like you grace my table for dinner. I often eat alone, you see. Well, I usually eat with Margot, but even then, I feel alone.” He says and focuses on the spot Margot had been mere moments ago with his brows furrowed and his lips in a thin line.

Being alone is a curse. I’m fortunate to be able to rely on Lewis on for company when I need it, and even my parents. I have people to listen to me, who have interest in what I do, and care for me. What does Mason have? From what he’s all told me and from personal observance during our sessions, he has nothing. He has no one. From the looks of it, Margot gives him a cold shoulder constantly, so he can’t even rely on family the same way I do.

A strange flutter emanates in my chest and courses through my body before settling in my belly. It’s another excited flitter. Perhaps through our sessions and the growing time we’ve spend together, Mason has come to see someone he can rely on in me? He’s found a friend he has never known in me. And I feel… _special_. I feel special knowing I’ve become that person, that confidant, that _friend_ , he can trust and can drive the loneliness away.

Pity slashes deep in my chest and I lean forward in my chair, my free hand lashing out in order to cover his as he does with mine. It’s a movement I don’t even process, and the contact of our skin is red-hot and burning.

I say nothing… or rather I can’t. The thrumming in my chest makes it hard to process words let alone speak them. I just sit there, looking between our hands and Mason’s eyes in desperate search for such words.

But he breaks the silence with, “Why don’t you live here? To become a live-in artist! At least until the painting is finishes, of course!” His face brightens with that boyish excitement that makes my cheeks blush.

I’m stunned. “Live here? Me? B-But—”

“Just think of it! I can give you a whole wing of the house to make into your own personal art studio! I can give you some of Margot’s rooms in the meantime and—”

“No! I refuse to take what is Margot’s! Mason, I… I can’t stay here! I-I have my own house and my own studio! I…” I take a long look at the room surrounding us again, and I swallow remembering Margot’s cold demeanor whenever I’ve been around her. “I don’t think I belong here.”

“Edith,” Mason saying my name prompts me to look at him, and his face is filled with a tender intensity, “I want you to live here. At least until the portrait is finished, whether that be days or weeks or months from now. I want you here. The drive between here and your home seems long, and the roads get awful dangerous during the winter. I’d feel comfortable and safer if you were here, with me and Margot.” His hands shift to clasp mine and pull them towards his chest. Through his fingers, I feel the tender thrum of his heartbeat—or is it my own that I’m feeling? “Please? For me?” The tone of his voice is enough to make me want to shatter and weep. It’s so gentle and soft… the tone of a young, pleading boy…

It feels impossible to gather my thoughts with Mason’s heat embracing my hands and coursing up my arm. My heart pounds loudly in my ears, my throat, my chest, everywhere!

This man… This charming, rich, tender man wants me here. He wants my company. He wants my presence. He wants me safe…

“Mason, I…” I finally sputter past a harsh swallow and glance at the dining room again before settling on his captivating gaze peering at me over the rims of his shimmering glasses. Just over his shoulder, I see the Boar staring at me from the corner of the room with a similar intensity.

Finally, I sigh with a smile.

“Alright. I’ll bring my things at our next session.”


	7. Six

“Is that everything?” Lewis calls from the porch with two easels pinned beneath his arms and against his midsection.

I hoist another overly stuffed suitcase, one with a knitted sock peeking out from between the zippers, onto the truck bed before stepping back to admire the small, haphazard stack of suitcases and boxes of art supplies occupying the bed. “That _should_ be everything.”

“Perfect, then!” He says and shoves the easels into the backseat of his Mazda. He then looks at me, thick brows knit together with both pride and concern, before bringing his attention back up towards the cabin. “I’ll be sure to keep her well-maintained for you while you’re gone; I’ll keep it clean, keep your bird feeders filled, et cetera.”

We stand beside each other, looking up at the house with our mittened hands seeking warmth in our coat pockets. The snow layering on the roof shines golden-white beneath the mid-morning sun, and it is marked by the tiny, clawed prints of chickadees, cardinals, and blue jays. A part of me will miss the little birds and the way they flitter between my house and the feeders; I’ll miss the opportunities to paint them during the early mornings. I’m going to miss the occasional rabbit crossing my lawn and the fox skulking between the trees. I’m going to miss my dear stag—my great prince of the woods.

_Hopefully, Mason will be okay with me setting up a birdfeeder or two._

“Thank you, for helping me out, Lewis,” I finally say, and my breath surrounds us in a light, pure vapor that disappears just as quickly as it appeared.

“Of course! I’m proud of you, Edith! I mean, I’m hesitant about you going off and living with the Vergers, of course, but I suppose ole Mason has changed for the better. ‘A sinner redeemed’ is what I hear people often call him.” His face betrays the enthusiasm in his tone, instead electing to maintain the same concerned expression he possessed when I initially told him about Mason’s commission.

_A sinner redeemed…_

I know not to say this aloud, especially with not while in Lewis’s company, but nothing about Mason has told me he was any sort of ‘sinner’. Of course, he has his moments of annoying arrogance and entitlement, but certainly nothing worth marking him as the wrongdoer described by Lewis; He’s been nothing but gracious and kind to me!

 _Maybe he truly_ is _a redeemed sinner?_

“Hopefully, you won’t have to worry about upkeep for too long. I plan on the painting process taking about a week, maybe two if it’s needed. But if you and Toto need a getaway,” I make a sweeping gesture towards the cabin, “Then, please, be my guests!”

Lewis’s laugh is soft and airy. “I wouldn’t want to get dog hair everywhere. Buuuut…” he swivels in order to look around at the immense forest isolating us on all sides, “This is the perfect place to find some nice carving wood.”

Laughing, I begin to edge towards the truck. “Well, you start brainstorming what kind of things you’re going to carve and tell me about what you’ve come up with once we get to Muskrat Farm, because I think we ought to be going right about now.” As I lift myself up into the burnt-orange truck, I’m grateful for Lewis’s hand on my back to help keep me steady. “Just follow me once we get off the highway, and text me if we get separated, okay?”

Lewis already occupies his Mazda and shouts a quick, “Alright, sounds good!” before slamming his door with a reverberating _thud_.

And then we’re off.

Though I had said that we are to call each other if we get lost, we don’t even make it to the end of my drive before I call him, pleading to talk with him over speaker as the truck is far too quiet without him in here. He seems perfectly fine with my defiance of my own rule, and we begin an animated conversation regarding the cold weather and how a warm front is scheduled to move across the eastern seaboard next week. At one point, we even take turns listening to each other’s radios through our phones’ speakers, even though his music only comes through as an incoherent buzz of melodies and lyrics that vaguely resemble heavy metal.

Once we reach the Vergers’ gate, we have to quiet our music so that Lewis can properly identify himself. After he’s cleared for entry, we resume our loud, music-filled banter through our phones until we pull up to the estate’s front step.

I take a moment to stare up at the house with all its turrets and archways and gargoyles, drinking in its haunting, grotesque beauty, before I rip my keys from the truck’s ignition.

“What kind of rubbish were you just having me listen to?” I whine when I step down with a harsh thud onto the gravel drive.

Lewis pouts and straightens his glasses when he lifts out of his car and jogs towards me, his thick, knitted scarf (the one he often claims a student with severe Cerebral Palsy crocheted for him during his first year of teaching) fluttering in the wind behind him like a long, dark tail. “You dare trash talk Metallica when you’ve tainted my truck’s stereo with the likes of,” he pauses to peek into the truck’s window, “David Bowie?”

“ _Hey_! David Bowie is a _treasure_!”

“Not when compared to Metallica,” He scoffs with an eyeroll.

I inhale a sharp breath, fueling myself for a fierce rebuttal to defend my childhood crush, but a voice from the front door stops me.

“Welcome, welcome!” Mason, followed by a grizzled man with lank brown hair and a greying beard that I know to be the groundskeeper Kenneth, steps down the stairs to greet us. A fox fur coat hangs from shoulders in a curtain of russet-brown, protecting him from the bitter chill, as he extends a hand gloved in its usual leather towards Lewis. “And you must be Mister Lewis Grey. Edith has told me a _lot_ about you!”

I falter for a moment. No, I didn’t. Well, I haven’t mentioned all that much. Just that Lewis is an art teacher that works with special needs students and had connections that helped me display my work at the Walters Art Museum’s local exhibition.

_Perhaps Lewis is a more well-known carver than I thought!_

“Hi, yes, I am! And you must be Mason Verger. Edith, of course, has told me a lot about you as well.” Lewis is amiable when he takes Mason’s hand and maintains a calm grin. I’m relieved to see that things are going smoothly so far when his face doesn’t show any signs of concern or fear the way it did some three hours ago.

“Edith told me you carve wood, as a hobby. She says you have a lot of talent, but wood carving has always struck me as a rather… gauche hobby.”

Lewis is either unphased by Mason’s words or just feigns not hearing him, because his demeanor remains the same. However, I manage to capture a fleeting glimpse of insult falter his expression before he quickly masks it with his usual wide, toothy grin.

“Well, let us begin then. Kenneth,” Mason waves for the man to come over. But once Kenneth begins to unload my things from the truck, I quickly try to slip between him and my luggage.

“Wait, wait! No, I can do this!” I try to shoo Kenneth away as nicely as I can by fanning my hands. “Please, don’t worry about this! I can do it, I assure you!”

Kenneth just looks down at me with an unamused frown deepening the sagging tributaries of wrinkles lining his brow, eyes, and lips.

“No, no, no,” Mason hums and repeats in his nasal, droning tone as he tugs me out of the old groundskeeper’s determined path by my shoulders. I, briefly, catch Lewis’s cautious gaze and swallow. “Let him take care of this—Oh! You stay right where you are, too, Mr. Grey! Old Kenny’s got this!”

Lewis pauses opening the back seat of his Mazda in order to unload the easels and a suitcase filled with some painting supplies. “Honestly, Mr. Verger, it’s no trouble. Please, let me at least bring these things inside.” But when Louis is already hoisting the easels and suitcase under his arms and approaches the stair, Mason stops him by setting a hand on his forearm.

“Mr. Grey, I insist. Let Kenneth take care of it. Oh! And, if I’m not mistaken,” he glances down at me with a slight scrunching of his nose and a glimmer across his glasses, “don’t you have classes? Little ones—ankle-biters—to teach?”

The hint of red begins to enter Lewis’s cheeks. “Y-yes, I do. But I hired a substitute; I took the day off to help.”

“Ah. Well, I think you should spend the day treating yourself, Mr. Grey. I’m sure Edith will be just fine with you gone.”

Finally, I step in. “Mason, why can’t Lewis just stay? I’d at least like to spend some time with him before he goes. Besides,” I glance at Kenneth, at his greying, greasy hair and a back slouching underneath the weight of age, “I think he’d appreciate some help… Can Lewis at least help bringing things into the lobby?”

Mason’s face scrunches in brief contemplation before he loosely shrugs. “Alright. He can at least do that much.”

And with that, we begin to unload. Well, all of us except Mason. He just stands off to the side, barking the occasional order or two to Kenneth to be more careful while handling my suitcases. It takes about twenty minutes before we have all my things sitting in a cluttered heap at the bottom of the main stair, and Kenneth, Lewis, and I are red-faced and aching from the constant, restless moving back and forth.

Together, Lewis and I tumble back outside to get some fresh air, as well as to say our goodbyes. As we’re wrapped in each other’s embrace, I give his midsection a firm squeeze.

“Video call every other day, starting tonight?” I ask, my voice somewhat muffled by the smooth bulk of his parka.

“Hmm,” He thinks, “Every other day, starting tonight… Including the weekends?”

“Including the weekends.”

“Then it’s a deal! As long as you keep your promise of showing me the portrait once it’s done.” His breath is warm against my scalp, and a part of me doesn’t ever want him to let go… though I think it’s from a place where it’s cold and we must rely on each other for warmth.

“Anyways,” Lewis begins and tries stepping away, “I should probably be heading back. Got some projects to grade; watercolor projects, that is!”

My hold on him remains, not quite ready for his departure. But if there are things to do, things to grade, then I should let him go.

“Alright… Have a safe drive back, okay? And you better have better music tastes the next time I see you!” I jab a finger lightly into his chest and the air around us fills with a merry laughter when he lowers himself into his car.

He looks up at me with a small smile followed by an eyelid twitching into a wink. “Can’t make any promises.”

And he’s gone, traversing back down the gravel drive and into the tunnel made of darkened forest; in the shadow of the low-hanging branches of pine, the Boar, too, is observing his departure.

I stand before the house’s front steps with my eyes flickering between the Boar and his taillights until they’re swallowed entirely by the tree’s shadows. I’m now alone, or at least until Mason comes up behind me with his shined shoes against the gravel drive announcing his arrival.

“He seems like a nice guy.” He said, putting down a hand that had previously been stiffly waving and stuffing it into the pockets of his plush, fur coat. “Would you wanna see your room, now?”

I don’t know why, but the mentioning of a room has me sputtering a bemused, “ _M-my_ room?”

Mason is already ascending the steps to retreat to the heated comfort of inside. “Well of course! You’re my guest here, so that means I’m obligated to have you living in comfortably luxury, the Verger way, of course. Now, come! I’ll show you.” His tone, while still enthusiastic, is clipped with impatience.

Quickly, I try to follow close behind him. But as he continues up the main stair, I stall in order to gather two suitcases: one with some clothes and another with my paint supplies, two of my heavier cases.

“Let me at least bring these with me. To make it easier for Kenneth,” I say when Mason pauses to glance back when he realizes that I’m no longer following him. But he soon shrugs and continues. Before I go after him, I cast a quick glance at Kenneth with a small smile, and he returns it with an exhausted, but grateful, nod.

Mason guides me through the relatively recognizable world of the second floor. Just when I think that I’m starting to memorize the labyrinthine layout of the estate, rather than turning down the familiar hall that leads to the Vergers’ portrait gallery, we continue onward we ascend a new set of stairs tucked between two rooms with wide double doors to the third floor. These new, alien halls possess more rooms, rooms with smaller doors that are facing another wall filled more randomly obscure paintings that all vary in what their subjects are.

“So, here are Margot’s rooms. Nothing too special here,” He says with a dull tone and lazily flings a gesture towards a series of three doors that’s white-and-pink paint is just beginning to peel with age.

Much in the way Mason does, I, too, would’ve dismissed the entrances to Margot’s rooms as nothing particular spectacular, but that’s until something catches my eye. On the last of these three doors is a padlock clasped around the door’s golden latch.

I pause for a moment, allowing Mason to wander ahead, in order to inspect this padlock. It’s old, perhaps from a time around the first world war, maybe even older. It’s elegant is design with sweeping, molded patterns of leaves and vines, but it’s darkened by years of rust and grime. I reach a out to inspect it further, but a harsh slam against the threshold stops me with a gasp, and I back into Mason standing over me with an unsettling air engulfing us both.

“Edith,” His tone is charismatically dark as he leans in so close that I can smell the sharp hint of martini lingering on his breath, “There is one rule you must remember while residing here. When you come across a locked door,” He lightly shakes the padlock before pointing a harsh finger at me, “don’t open it. _Ever_. Don’t even try to open it. Are we clear, Edith?”

Slowly, I nod and harshly swallow. “Mm-hmm.”

He suddenly smiles. “Perfect, now lets us continue on!”

While he continues on, I linger, my head turned as my attention is enraptured by the peculiar lock. Do I dare question what Mason Verger is hiding that’d require a lock and such an ominous threat?

If I’m only staying for, at the most, two weeks, then no. It’s best not.

But that doesn’t stop me from at least _speculating_.

_Maybe’s hiding a cursed portrait that reveals some inner, twisted evil a la Dorian Gray. Or is what I’m painting intended to be the cursed portrait? It could just a boring broom closet that hides the corpses broken brooms, mops, and feather dusters, too, however._

I stifle a harsh snicker when my mind wanders to the idea of Mason possessing a “playroom” like in _50 Shades of Grey_.

“There’s my room,” He gestures to a considerably grand (well, grander than Margot’s) set of gilded double doors adorned with the winged boar statues at the end of the hall before we sharply turn down another. “And this one here is yours!” We come to double doors at the end of another hall and Mason turns to me with an eager grin.

Almost impatiently, he opens the doors inward and steps aside, gesturing for me to go inside. “Go on, look!”

So, I do.

The room is easily twice the size and length of my cabin. The heightened ceiling is textured by ribbed faults painted a pleasant shade of golden yellow that match the twisted metal and crystals of the four chandeliers designed to warm the room with a humble glow. Occupying the center of the one wall is a set of plush furniture surrounding an impressive fireplace that, much like the one in the dining room, depicts scenes of royal hunts and glades filled with does, boars, and foxes; I wonder if it’s able to host any fires. Adjacent to the little sitting area, in one of the room’s slanted corners, is a massive four-poster bed large enough to comfortably fit three people. Golden gossamer encircles around thick bed posts and compliment the lush bronze and copper and golden blankets and pillows adorning the bed.

“Oh my goodness…” I breathe, practically dropping my suitcases against the threshold as I wander inside.

The farthest wall boasts a wall of mullioned windows that offer a generous view of the snow-covered forests, the gardens, and the Appalachians that lie beyond. But just outside the windows, I notice, is a balcony. I approach the windows and rest my hand on the metal latch jutting out from the center window before opening the glass door and inviting the cool, winter air into the bedroom. The chandeliers’ crystals twinkle slightly against the breeze, and Mason’s amused chuckle rushes against it as I shut the door just as quickly as I opened it.

“It’s for if you wish to paint outside. The weather should be warming up any day now, and you may know, so perhaps you could work on my portrait out there.”

I step back from the window before turning to face Mason. He leans against the threshold with his hands stuffed into his pockets and his lips turned into his usual, proud half-smile. “I’m assuming you like it. Your silence and you being all slack-jawed is awful telling.”

I have nothing to say except, “Thank you, Mason. Truly, I…” I look at the room around me with a wonderstruck, stupefied expression before my eyes settle on him again. Without another thought, I launch myself forward so that I hold him in a tightened embrace. I’m almost disappointed that he doesn’t reciprocate the affection the way Lewis would, but the sudden thumping of his heart against my ear is good enough. “Thank you, so much.”

“Oh, you’re welcome.” He wriggles out of my hold with a small laugh, though the sound is dry. “Right! I don’t plan on us having a session today. I want you to adjust to the house and your room. So! Feel free to explore! And remember,” he holds up a finger, “Stay away from locked doors, right?”

I nod, smiling. “Right.”

“Now! I’ll see you, maybe, before dinner. I dunno. I’ll be around if you need me, or you could ask Kenneth for me. Now, enjoy your new home, Edith.” And then he’s gone, closing the door behind him.

I wait until his footsteps have faded away before I release a high squeal and leap onto the bed. I sink into the mattress and am swallowed by the thick sea of comforters and pillows. Catching my breath with a smile, I stare up at one of the chandeliers hanging over my bed through the gossamer canopy. Amplified by the enclosed comfort of the mattress and blankets, my excited heartbeat steadily hums in my throat and ears.

“So, this is what it’s like being a Disney princess.” I wheeze and sit up in the bed before turning my attention back to the doorway where Mason had been standing moments ago. “And as a princess, I suppose I ought to explore the castle.” _While staying away from locked doors, of course._


	8. Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw: inferred incest and pedophilia.

Horror contorts Margot’s face as she watches the security monitors illuminating the wall of her brother’s study, her back resting against a desk cluttered with scribbled notes and photographs of pigs both wild and domesticated. Her heart is like a weaponized metronome in her heart—it’s a stabbing blade of ice burrowing deeper into her chest and throughout her bloodstream with every beat—as she watches Edith dance into view of a plasma screen depicting the dining room, then she moves back out of frame before reappearing on a separate monitor displaying the hallway just outside the room.

She stands with her arms crossed and with one knuckle pressed to her lips where her teeth gnaw at the already worn flesh.

_Mason, what have you done?_

She had hoped to scare Edith away. She had hoped her cool demeanor and distant attitude would’ve been enough to intimidate and drive the young painter far, far away from Mason’s hands before she’d fall too deep into his trap.

_Now it’s too late._

Margot watches the wall of screens as they display Edith, with the sleeves of her knit sweater hanging loosely at her sides like a moth’s wings, wandering into a wide, gaping room that was once a dancing hall, Margot thinks, but is now just something Mason uses as a mere exhibit to further flaunt the Verger fortune.

There’s an innocence with every one of Edith’s bouncing steps, the innocence of a young woman—a girl—who’s yet to experience the harsh truths and horrors of the world. _Of Mason’s world._

“Enjoying the view?” Mason’s voice grates against Margot’s ears like the scraping of horses’ broken bones when he enters the room.

She doesn’t give him the satisfaction of even a glance and moves so she can stand beside him in a calculated manner. She’s cautious to leave enough space between them for her to make an escape if he ever decides to reach out towards her, whether the escape be through the unlocked windows behind them or through the study’s door.

In the crook of his arm, Mason coddles the little piglet ( _Charlotte_ , Margot recalls Edith’s name for it) and he possesses a proud smirk as his eyes follow Edith’s image across the monitors; her figure dances across in the reflection of his glasses. He looks like a hunter admiring his kill roasting over a fire.

“I did it, Margot. Are you proud of me?”

Margot says nothing. Her crimson lips press into a firm line against her knuckle.

“Margot,” There’s the _tone_ … The tone that threatens to shatter Margot and tear her apart from the inside out if she dares to let it revive old, horrible memories buried deep into the untouchable regions of her subconscious. A shudder tears down her spine before settling in her heart with glassy claws when she feels her brother’s attention turn to her. “Margot, aren’t you proud of me?”

“What’s there to be proud of? You lured a girl into being trapped here.” She finally sputters into her knuckle.

“Well,” A hand clamps down on her shoulder and the grip is harsh, unforgiving, immobilizing, “I thought you’d be proud I found a woman I wish to be my wife. Someone I can settle down and start a family with since you…” Margot feels his gaze fall towards the lowest point of her abdomen, “lost your chance at providing me a _pure_ Verger heir.”

A heat burns across her cheeks before trickling down through her body and settling in her torso, practically igniting the horizontal scar puckered beneath the embroidered hem of her black blazer.

“She’s just a _child_.” Margot says icily. She knows Edith is only five years her junior at twenty-five, but her rather oblivious disposition regarding her current position makes her act as though she’s still a young teen. But she also knows that her brother has a… proclivity for those that are younger. And it doesn’t help that Edith Watts possesses an unnerving resemblance to the Vergers’ late mother; The only passing knowledge either sibling has of their mother is the numerous paintings and photographs of her, antiques and dresses and jewelry she had once worn, that Mason had Kenneth stuff and lock away in Margot’s closet.

“Mmh, I know.” Mason says absently. The way he strokes and caresses the piglet’s back make Margot nauseous. “You’re to keep your mouth shut, at least if you’re still wishing to have an allowance to spend on your horses. Say _nothing_ about Mother to _her_. I can make this work, Margot, and I can’t have you trying to interfere. Besides, neither of us, especially you, can afford any… interference.”

She really _can’t_ afford to interfere… Without Mason, without the Verger fortune, without his allowance, she’d be destitute… Mason cut her off from the world, severing ties with any potential acquaintances, and she knew hardly anything about their extended family. There’s nowhere for her run to, nowhere to hide, no one to confide in, no one to shelter her. Her whole world is Muskrat Farm. All she has is Mason.

But maybe—just maybe—she could still save Edith… If she can’t save herself, then she might as well try to save another from Mason’s claws! She’d have to try and steal a moment with her, to drop hints, to drop warning glances, subtle warnings she knew Mason would be oblivious to. As much as Mason is a cunning man, he is equally oblivious to the subtle things in the world around him.

“Do I make myself clear, Margot?” Mason’s breath heats her ear hidden beneath the heavy, curled swath of her braid.

She steps away just as quickly as he approached and starts out of the room; she needs to take Guinevere for a ride. “Crystal.”


	9. Eight

“A _ballroom_?!”

“Yeah, a ballroom! Like, marble floors, columns, chandeliers, the whole thing!” I glance away from my current task of folding and packing my clothes into the wardrobe towards Lewis’s face illuminating the screen of my laptop set on my bed. Charlotte, with her silk bow collar, naps on a pillow and occasionally snorts with the muffled sounds of deep sleep. “And there’s statues everywhere! Mostly of these winged pig things, but there are some, like, human ones, too. Oh! And then there’s my bathroom! I’ll have to send you pictures, but the bathtub is one of those old claw-footed ones and it’s by a window— a stain glass one! —so I can have a view of the garden while I bathe! The faucets are shaped like the heads of hogs, too.

A high whistle rings out from the screen. “That sounds neat, Edith. It doesn’t shock me that the house is a piece of artwork on the inside, too!”

“It truly is,” I shut the wardrobe, kick a suitcase aside, clamber into bed with nothing but an old _Star Trek_ shirt and plaid sweatpants with a hole in the knee, and place my laptop across my knees, “I wish you were able to stay longer to explore it along with me.”

The brick wall of his apartment behind him boasts a corkboard hanging over a desk hosting stacks of students’ projects and photographs of Lewis’ former classes. The newest photograph on the desk’s edge, one with a newly carved wooden frame, displays Lewis with a bright grin standing behind a line of boys and girls, no older than ten, that all range in various disabilities such as Down’s syndrome, cerebral palsy, blindness, and being confined to a wheelchair. In the children’s hands, Lewis’s included, they’re all holding watercolor paintings that vaguely resemble the lakeside landscape behind them.

His smile and laughter are soft, and he scratches at the neckline of his nightshirt (which possesses a worn and faded Metallica insignia). “I don’t want you to worry about me, Edith. This is your time to shine, okay? You’ve worked hard at perfecting your craft to be there, and I’m proud of you!”

My head ducks to mask the warmth blossoming in my cheeks. “Thank you, Lewis… for everything.”

#

It’s difficult to paint. I’m too distracted by the excitement of spending another day exploring the Verger estate, so it’s practically impossible for me to have my brush remain steady upon the canvas.

This morning marks the start of my fourth day of living here, but yet whenever I come across a new corridor or new (unlocked) door while on my journey down to the solarium, it still feels as though it’s my first.

Mason watches me stroke the beginnings of white paint across the sketchy breast of his portrait’s vest. I’m grateful for his breath warming the nakedness of my neck as there’s a slight chill emanating from the windows; this is one of those few times where I wish my hair were long again.

“Surely there are more interesting things for you to do than watching me paint,” I say with another short stroke. _You’re literally just watching paint dry._

He shrugs. “It’s too chilly to work with the pigs, and I’d prefer being here, with you.” His words are somewhat muffled by the little square of chocolate he suckles between his teeth.

For a moment, just a moment, a part of me wishes for him to rest his chin on my shoulder. Instead, I just lean back far enough so my back rests against his chest. I smile slightly when, through his ribs and the thick material of his crisp, red waistcoat, I feel a sudden increase in his heartbeat thumbing against my shoulder.

A heat crosses my face and temps my lips to meekly grin.

_I prefer being here, with you… I prefer being here with you… I prefer being here with you…_

The more I think on the words, the more my heart becomes a starling thrashing about in my chest cavity as though it’s nothing more than a cage it’s desperate to break free of. I wonder how much longer I have until this starling frees itself.

I observe the painting for a moment, having decided that Mason’s presence and warmth have become distracting. The portrait is still lifeless, being only a canvas slathered in gesso with the phantom silhouette of my sketch showing through; there’s nothing to observe.

“Is it looking alright so far?” I ask, then glance up at him. _Stupid question! You haven’t even painted anything yet!_

His lips purse as he continues to suck on his square of chocolate and his eyes lazily focus on the almost iridescent patch of off-white marking the beginning of his painting’s breast pocket when he nods.

“Of course, it is. It’s making me more eager to see a finished product. However,” his eyes flicker as he turns to look out the wall of windows behind us, at the terrace and gardens layered underneath the fresh blanket of snow. The atmosphere outside it drab and dotted by plump snowflakes that listlessly drift down the sea of grey, like the speckled stars that illuminate a January night sky; the Boar lurks in the shadowed depths of the snowfall, its eyes glistening like fresh blood and its tusks whiter than the snow below its grimy hooves. “It’s a shame to waste away such a lovely winter afternoon in doors, don’t you think?”

I follow his gaze to observe the demure, hazy snowfall. At this moment, I fail to recall London winters looking so… whimsical. Smog and the ecosystem of the city always made snow turn a sickly off-white, grey color before it could even touch the ground. And within minutes it would have turned into slush made black by tires and traffic and exhaust. Winters were never as beautiful, as calm, as _white_ as this. Perhaps this is just the result of the Verger estate’s fantastical, whimsical magic.

_I wonder how my Great Prince of the Woods is faring. I wonder if he’ll be able to find any stray birdseeds with all the snow._

I blink myself free from my trance when I notice the sudden absence of Mason’s warmth. There’s a sudden shift of expensive fabrics from the other side of my canvas as he shrugs his coat onto his shoulders, leaving Charlotte alone to nap in his armchair.

“Come on, I wanna go walk through it!” A familiar, boyish excitement crosses his gaze when he flashes a smile. “Now, go get your coat.”

#

I’m nearly swallowed whole by a snowbank’s fluffy maw when I step off the terrace, but, fortunately, Mason’s sudden grasp on my arm saves me.

“Careful.” The snow only comes up to his shins (the legs of his trousers are already drenched) whereas, once I’m steadied, it nearly reaches my knees.

It’s like wading through a pit of foam. The snow itself isn’t cold, but it’s thick and wet and clings to the end of my coat with cool hands while snowflakes clutch at my lashes with desperate fingers. But then, once it begins to soak through my jeans and into my boots, I want to go back inside. I crave to go back into my own bathroom, to hide from the kiss of winter beneath the heated steam of a bath.

A gust of winter chill slice through my hat and scarf, biting and flaying my flesh with cruel, sharp fangs of ice. “M-Mason, can we go back inside? It’s freezing.” I sputter past the chatter of my teeth, but when I turn to speak to my companion, there is no one there. Just empty air filled with another harsh breeze and the chaotic fluttering of a thousand crystalline snowflakes; the statue of an armless, bodacious, naked woman (a statue of the goddess Aphrodite?) stares at me listlessly from her perch before a lifeless rosebush, her lips curved into a grin of coy mockery.

It’s as though he’s been swallowed by the winter’s silence, inhaled by the swirling clouds of plump snowflakes like a phantom whisper upon the wind.

“Mason?” I quickly twirl, though the movement is muddied by the thickness of the snow trying to inhale me. “Mason, where are you?” Perhaps he decided he had enough of the chilled snow and retreated into the warmth of the estate? _What if he left me out here to freeze? H-He’d never!_

Snow amplifies the silence, so I hear nothing but by own heartbeat and the Boar’s ragged, wheezing grunts while it paces along the distant tree line. It isn’t until now that I truly feel alone here...

Or at least until something—something cool, heavy, and damp—collides with the back of my head with a wet _thwack_.

My hand flies to where icy pain reverberates across my skull, seeping through my hat and clinging to my hair, only to have it return grasping a palm-full of snow melting against my skin. I’ve been hit by a… a snowball?

“Mason!” I hiss when another snowball collides with my shoulder, this time sending a spray of snow slapping across my exposed cheek. _It_ has _to be him! Who else is here to assault me with snow?_

But when I’m twisting and turning this way and that, there’s no one else occupying the wintry landscape. I see nothing and no one, just an endless expanse of the gardens and forest.

There is something that shifts somewhere from deep within the grey, snow-dappled garden alongside a sea of lifeless hedge roses. The flash of a white, hunched figure that emerges from the snow just before becoming one with it once again.

“Mason, stop!” I trek after where the figure had disappeared, finally coming across a set of fresh tracks scarring the snow and its surrounding embankments. “Let’s just go inside already, no more games!”

Another snowball, only this time it collides with my hip; there’s a more audible _thud_ of ice against bone.

“ _Mason_!” A desperate plea clips my voice, but I can’t help but smile and laugh, and soon my voice joins Mason’s distant chuckle in the winter air above. He’s being that little boy again, the one that was excited about my paintings and to show me his pigs. He’s nothing but a child in the snow, though it’s only becoming menacing since I’m struggling to find him as I continue to wade through the snow, following the tracks. As I continue to follow them, I can’t help but notice how… strange the tracks are… it’s as though they shift between the cloven hooves of a boar and those of a man. They fade into one another, becoming one the further on they go.

I follow the tracks all through the yard, past statues, a fountain with icicles clinging to its sculptures of voluptuous nymphs and muscled satyrs, and plots of land meant to be housing gardens of flowers. But I stop with a harsh swallow. The tracks no longer go forward. Instead, they turn back to loop back behind—

A great force crashes into me, tackling me to the ground and into the seductive, pillowy pull of the snow. The body on top of me is hot and warm and heavy, and a combination of the scent of martinis and the high, nasal cackle aid in identifying my attacker.

“M-Mason!” I seethe past a wheezing laugh.

Snow clasps onto Mason’s tousled, untamed mass of blond hair, to the mink-fur trimmings of his white coat, and his laughing breath fogs his glasses to the point where I can no longer see the snowflakes decorating his pale brows and lashes like diamonds upon a golden ring.

“Gotcha!” His voice is a hyena’s cackle as his hands brace on my shoulders, pushing me deeper into the snow.

“How—” –I wheeze as he presses me further into the ground, and I tap his elbow as a sign to lessen his grip – "How is it you move so quietly?”

He shrugs, his heavy breath now warming my face and melting the snow in my hair and scarf. “Practice.” He manages past his gasps.

And then we’re shrouded in a haze of snow and the vapors of our breaths that curtains us, hiding us from the rest of the world. We’re surrounded by silence, feeling nothing but the heat of each other’s bodies and the ice-cold kiss of the snow.

I wriggle beneath him, preparing to throw him off me so I can finally stand.

“We should probably go in—” I’m silenced by Mason’s lips fiercely pressing into mine. The action is so sudden that I gasp beneath his lips, freezing beneath his touch.

He pulls away with a deep breath and his half-smile.

“I-I… Uhm…” What am I to say? What am I to do? Of course, I’ve been kissed many times before, but to have one come out of nowhere… to have one come from Mason Verger… _What should I do...?_

Deciding to remain silent, knowing my words will fail me, I reach a hand to feel his face… to actually feel it… to caress and hold and touch it without the barrier of artist and muse. I’m thankful to not be wearing gloves because his skin is soft, and supple and smooth… skin that’s yet to be touched be harsh blemishes and breakouts… and his lips are softer, much softer… and I suddenly crave their feeling once more. So, I reach up until our lips touch again, and this time his kiss is more powerful, more vehement.

The starling in my chest – in my heart – thrashes and throws its tantrum once more as fire courses through my veins, starting in my lips and ending at the tips of my fingers beginning to traverse through the silky, snow-dampened, forest of his hair. Is this what a true kiss feels like? Electric fire? Warmth immediately followed by ice, only to be pursued by heat once again? It must be, because that’s all I feel while trapped beneath the sickly sweet, chocolate-flavored embrace of his lips.

I swear the starling is about to tear itself free, is about to burst within my heart and escape, but then we separate. Vapors fill the space between our faces, and we both remain there, smiling and giggling like teens that had been caught kissing beneath the school’s bleachers.

“We should head inside… I can have Kenneth make us some hot chocolate.” Mason whispers, his words coming out in martini-scented wisps that tickle my nose and tempt me to kiss him again. A gloved thumb releases my shoulder to caress my lower lip before he decides to act and kiss me again.

“Hmm, hot chocolate sounds great.”

He heaves himself off me before offering to yank me onto my feet. As we walk back to the house, Mason holds me close with a single arm, using it to shield me from the cold. I take this moment to, gratefully, burrow into his warmth.

I turn to look back upon the indent we made in the snow with a proud smile (and perhaps even to see the Boar, too. I’ve grown to favor its company!), but instead I see Margot atop Guinevere, watching after us with her crimson lips tightened into a harsh frown before she turns her snow-white mare around and disappears onto the riding trails. It’s as though she’s nothing more than a specter upon the winter wind.


	10. Nine

A hollow, wintry chill swells all the spaces of Muskrat Farm, whistling through the bars of Margot’s stables and slapping across the backs of Mason’s hogs and biting my cheeks hidden beneath my scarf. Another shiver clutches my body while I work on a sketch of a mother hog suckling a litter of seven piglets in a pen tucked in the barn’s farthest corner.

Mason, Kenneth, and a class of about fifteen kindergarteners with two chaperones huddle together on the platform overlooking the boars’ pen. The students are visiting the Farm as a fieldtrip about raising livestock and the meat packaging industry. Why any teacher would wish to teach children about such dark topics is beyond me.

Mason’s personality is very animated while he describes his project about the boars to his young audience, but none of it is coherent to me; most of the children (and their chaperones) press themselves back against the railing with expressions of pale, apprehensive fear while there are others gawking at the pigs with gasps of foolish awe.

I don’t really care to know what Mason is lecturing about if it involves those awful pigs. So, I’ve decided to take this time—yet another one of Mason’s desired breaks from our portrait session—to at least practice something related to my combines passions of art and nature. Whenever I find myself hidden away in my bedroom, I try to utilize that time to sketch the vast wilderness just outside my window. There have been days just warm enough that I’ve been able I stand upon my balcony and sketch the forest and mountain landscape, stopping only when droplets of snow melting from the gargoyles perched overhead tarnish the page’s charcoal lines. However, I’m growing bored of drawing the same tree line, the same ridge of mountains, the same patch of wilderness. I’m too high up to see any birds hop across the gardens, and I’m yet to see any deer traverse across the lawn (especially my dear Great Prince of the Wood). There isn’t nearly as much inspiration here as I had initially hoped there’d be.

I wish to explore the lawn more once the snow is gone, to reignite my love for sketching the natural world that hugs every corner of the Vergers’ land, but I feel like even then I wouldn’t be able to do so because Mason has recently adopted a habit of following me around like a puppy.

_Should I even complain?_

With this newfound behavior of his, he still complements my art, keeps me company, always offers input on the paintings… _gives me kisses and warm feelings I’ve never felt for anyone before._

It’s been a week since our kiss in the snow. It’s been a week of a playful dance of what I believe is meant to be courtship. It’s been a week full of games of affections, of kisses and embraces, of quick glances and a burning blush crossing my face. It’s been a week full of Mason’s face warming my shoulder, his lips warming my neck, his breath warming my hair, his voice warming my ears as I slowly breathed life into his portrait with the help of my paints.

Despite our bi-daily calls, I’ve neglected to tell Lewis about Mason’s kiss.

Another chill howling through the Farm grips my body, disturbing my lines on my paper and making them into sketchy, incoherent lines.

The lines creating the tan-and-black sow are supposed to be smooth—supple—with the warm, loving, maternal curves of motherhood, while her piglets are just small bundles of innocence drawn with faint, smooth lines. However, the coldness seizing control of my hands destroys this image, making my lines sketchy and damaged until the mother hog resembles Mason’s deformed boars.

There’s no point in doing sketches now, not if they’re going to be butchered by the cold and my own hands.

I look back up at Mason and the class of children looming over the boars’ pen. Their breaths’ collective vapors engulf their faces in a wispy, shrouding mist of white. Mason’s talking too quietly and too collectively for me to hear even a single syllable, so I decide to abandon my sketching, the sow, and her piglets, and leave the barn. I keep my steps light on the ground, tip toeing across the hay-layered floor. I’m almost afraid that Mason would hear my exit and stop me in order to look upon his boars.

The air of the stables is far more welcoming, far homier when compared to the pigs’ barn.

Margot is occupied with brushing Guinevere’s muzzle when I enter, and she acknowledges my presence with a cool glance in my direction.

A large muzzle knocks against my shoulder, and I chuckle when the Clydesdale occupying the stall with a plaque with the name ‘Lennie’ engraved pokes his massive head from his stall and nudges my shoulder again. I laugh, again, at how warm he is beneath my palm. “Just a big softie, aren’t you?”

“I saved him from a petting zoo, a roadside one in Tennessee. They made him into an exhibit for children to gawk at how large he was, maybe even ride him if they paid an extra couple bucks. The ‘zookeepers’, if you could even call them that, didn’t really care for him, though. He was barely even a bag of bones when he was brought to me.” Margot explains, offering me another glance.

I look back up at Lennie, into the two massive, soulful eyes staring down at me from either side of his long, brown-and-white face. My heart damn near shatters when I imagine what kind of horrors a gentle horse such as him would have had to endured at a cheap petting zoo.

“You rehabilitate your horses? Mason never told me that. He said you only raised them for competition.”

“There’s a great many things Mason hasn’t told you, Edith.” There’s piercing ice layering her tone, and the coolness of her eyes is far more lethal when she turns to me, her crimson lips quirked into a slight scowl, a blonde plait slung across her shoulder, and her gloved hands stuffed into the pockets of her red-and-black overcoat. “Which reminds me, what’s your experience with painting? Where did you receive your… art education?” She asks and sucks on her cheek as she raises a manicured brow.

"Education?”

Margot nods and leans against the stall. Guinevere merely sniffs her hair with a snow-white muzzle. “Where did you go to school? California Institute of the Arts? Central Saint Martins? Berlin University? Glasgow? Where?”

“Oh, uhm, I’m self-taught. I-I never went to university.” Why do I feel embarrassed? Is it normal for artists to go to an art school? “I was homeschooled as a girl, and I taught myself art as a hobby.”

Margot nods, though I struggle to read if she’s impressed or disappointed. “Alright. Now, did my brother ever ask a question like that? Did he even ask for a portfolio?”

“N-No, he didn’t. We met at an art exhibit, that’s portfolio enough, wouldn’t you think?”

She shrugs. “Perhaps. But don’t you find it peculiar that Mason never asked such simple questions? I’d assume he would, given how much he’s paying you for the portrait.”

I duck my head when I feel a blush creeping into my cheeks. “I… I never really thought anything of it…”

Once more, Margot shrugs and reaches a hand upwards to caress Guinevere’s prodding snout. “I didn’t expect you to. What I _would_ expect you to do, however, is know how inappropriate it is for an employer to have… relations with an employee.” A brow raises again. and her stature stiffens.

I stammer and blanche. “I-I, uhm… E-excuse me?”

“Don’t think what’s going on between you and my brother is a secret. Don’t think I don’t see what you two do.” There’s an even more embittered sneer chilling her tone and curling her lip. “It’s quite inappropriate, I think, employee-employer relations.”

I blush. What do I say? I’m not an employee in the traditional sense, and I don’t see Mason as my employer. I merely see him as something just beyond a friend. I care for Mason and surely, he cares for me as well, so why should it matter if we have relations?

“W-Well, why should it matter? We’re content with what we have and what we are.”

“I’m afraid _I_ am not contempt. You’re not good enough for my brother.” Her bitter scowl transforms into a harsh snarl that pierces my heart, sending me stumbling back with a small breath. “And _I_ don’t want you here. My brother may care for you, but I never will.”

I’m suffocated and hurt. I’m further robbed of my breath when tears threaten to spill from my eyes. Clearly, I’m no longer welcomed here, and I never have been in the first place.

_I need to leave..._

I can’t stay here—in the stables, in the Farm, in the estate. I just need to leave.

I duck my head when Margot turns back to Guinevere and I step towards the door. “I’m sorry...”

#

It always feels as though it takes forever to pack one’s things when they’re in a hurry. When I checked the time on my phone, I know it’s only taken me about thirty minutes to stuff all my things—my clothes, my art supplies, toiletries, and everything in between—but it’s felt like thirty hours. Margot’s words continue to haunt me, swirling around my brain in a nauseating, buzzing haze, and I blink back another wave of tears while stuffing towels into a suitcase.

In the corner of my bedroom, Mason’s half-finished portrait leers at me, as if punishing me for leaving before its completion; I plan to finish painting it in the safety of my cabin.

_I should call Lewis… maybe we can get drinks, so I can be in the company of someone who tolerates me. Maybe I’ll finally tell him about Mason._

Back and forth, I am conflicted as I make the continuous, repetitive journey up and down the floors, hauling my luggage down so it can be loaded into the bed of my truck. Company would be nice, but if Margot can’t tolerate me, then perhaps Lewis won’t be able to either.

My arms, my legs, my everything aches more and more each time I hastily rush up three stories, retrieve a suitcase or two, then rush back down to have them loaded. I’m grateful that Kenneth returned from the Farm a little earlier, and that he offered help me with the final bags and easels.

As usual, he remains silent, but his eyes, whenever he glances at me, are filled with a sadness that sags his features and bents his already crooked frame.

I can’t bear to look at him, so I continue to load my bags in a stifled, whimpering silence.

With careful hands, I place Mason’s portrait, shielded beneath a black tarp, in the passenger’s seat.

Once everything is finally loaded up, I keep my head low, not wanting to look at Kenneth, at the house towering above, or even the Boar anxiously pacing the tree line. The Boar stops every other step to shake itself with a hateful snarl. In the distance, there’s the faint rumbling of bus engines as the school children leave the Farm.

Just before I hoist myself into the truck, a voice and the crunch of gravel cuts through the clearing like a poisoned blade: “Edith?”

I turn and there I see Mason, striding from the front door across the drive. His steps are apprehensive, and his gaze concerned. His eyes flicker from the truck, then to me jumping into the driver’s seat. His expression is remains contorted with youthful despair and my heart aches. I feel nauseous.

“Where are you going?” His tone is quivering, afraid. In this moment, he is a child. Quivering, scared, desperate.

It twists my heart as I stare down at him, and I bite my lip when I feel it beginning to shiver with an oncoming sob. I’m a monster being responsible for such heartbreak, but I know I cannot stay here any longer. I’m not welcomed.

“I—” A sob threatens to steal my voice, “I’m leaving.”

“But… But why?” He approaches the truck and braces his hands on the door. “Aren’t you happy here?”

I swallow when I see his hand shiver, though I’m not sure if it’s because of the cold or some other dangerous emotion. “Well, yes, but…”

“But?” He urges with a sharp, upward crack in his tone.

“But I feel like there are those who don’t want me here. I don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable… If I am not welcomed here, then I might as well leave.”

“Edith, you _are_ welcomed here! What are you talking about?”

I sigh and slam the door shut. Both Mason and I exchange looks filled with tears. “Your sister has made it clear to me I’m not wanted here.”

“Edith!” Mason says again with a more pleading tone and lunges forward so that he can snatch my hands from the steering wheel. The heat of his palms burns my skin even through his gloves as he gives me a bone-crushing squeeze. “Edith, please, don’t leave! Don’t leave me!”

“Oh, Mason…” I stare down at his tight grip as tears burn my eyes and slither down my cheeks. A sob shudders through my body and contorts my lungs. “Mason… I-I care for you. I care for you the way I’ve never cared for someone before. But I, in good conscious, can’t stay here, not when I know someone doesn’t want me here. I’m finishing the portrait at home, where _I_ feel comfortable. I will let you know when it’s done, then you can have someone retrieve it for you.” I yank my hands free of Mason’s and start the car.

“E-Edith, no!” His voice starts off as a shivering cry, but then evolves into a desperate, “Edith! No, please! Stop!” once I shift the gear into drive and start to round the fountain adorning the drive.

I try to block out the voice as I continue down the drive, but I can’t ignore Mason’s wailing of my name as his figure begins to shrink in my rearview mirror. Just behind him, the Boar throws its head back in a despairing roar before charging after the truck.

“ _EDITH_!”


End file.
